


They Call It Puppy Love

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (The established relationship is Kragdu), (The unrequited crush is Quilldu), Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Canon-Typical Violence, Dad Yondu, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Peter wants to be daddied, Spanking, Switching, Underage Masturbation, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yondu wants to dad Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-06 23:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11611146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: In which the youngest Ravager develops a very awkward crush. Yondu is oblivious, Kraglin is long-suffering, and it all works out in the end.





	1. Lovesick

**Author's Note:**

> **Here we go! The premise of this - I think it came from the kink meme, but I can't be bothered to dig for the prompt - was that Peter Quill, underage but not horrifically so, develops an embarrassing thing for his cap'n. Yondu, seeing the kid only as... well, _his kid,_ doesn't have the first clue how to deal with this nonsense. Awkward situations abound! It's all handled sensitively, but I've added the mature tag just in case.**

Peter is sixteen and shooting up like a pile of garbage on Knowhere. Yondu is twenty-ish years his senior, and has just about gotten used to looking up rather than down when they talk.

Or when they yell. That happens with far more regularity nowadays.

Peter, like any teenager, has an independent streak a fair few miles wider than his ability to actually look after himself. As much as Yondu'd like to let the kid go dig his own hole – best way to learn, that; plus, it'd provide some solid entertainment on the side – there's plenty of folks out there who shoot first and ask questions later. If Peter makes good on his latest threat, to leave the Ravagers and never look back? The only way he's gonna wind up is dead.

Which is why Yondu has taken matters into his own hands, and locked the brat in his cabin. 

 

* * *

  

It's just a precautionary measure. The door is coded to Yondu's handprint, and while Quill's quite the lockpicker he has yet to work out how to fake biosignatures. That lesson can wait, Yondu decides, for when Quill's no longer hollering this nonsense about  _desertion_ and  _finding somewhere where his talents will be appreciated_ whenever Yondu cranks open the trapdoor and trudges down the ladder, bleary eyed and scratchy-throated from a day spent bawling men out in a language he was never designed to speak.

Honestly. The kid's ungrateful. Yondu's been the perfect host: feeding him twice a day, hydrating him thrice, letting him have access to the grimy washroom that juts off his cabin at an angle. He's even been nice enough to loan the kid a quarter of his nest.

It's of a decent size. There's plenty of room for two full-grown men to stretch out – he and Kraglin test this often enough, not that Quill needs to know it (or any other crewman, for that matter). One not-especially-tall Ravager captain and one skinny Terran with more leg than brains should fit no problem. Peter ain't got nothing to complain about.

And yet he does. Loudly and coarsely, spitting cusses Yondu taught him. When Yondu's boot soles hit floor and he plods to the bed, wriggling out of his bulky captain's coat along the way, Peter even takes a swing at him.

Now, tall the kid might be, but muscular he ain't. That'll come later. Yondu's sure of it – Quill eats enough to put Kraglin to shame, and everyone knows that skinny git's nurturing a tapeworm. For now, Quill's built like a baby giraffe – or a comparable Kree creature, which Yondu recalls being used for hunting practice back in the good ol' days when he had a collar around his neck and orders in his earpiece and no responsibilities besides surviving the next day.

Quill's all bony joints, which look as liable to buckle as hold him upright. It's laughably easy to catch the fist, wrench it behind Peter's back, spin 'em in a circle on Quill's momentum, and shove the boy facefirst over his desk.

“Enough,” Yondu orders, pinning him with his hips while his jaw clicks around a yawn. His belt fastenings drag over Quill's ass, scratching him through the leather. “S'been a long day. Now, you gonna come sleep, or do I gotta tie ya up so ya don't try an' shank me in the night?”

In truth, Yondu's had far more dangerous bedfellows than an angry Terran twig. He could take whatever Peter threw his way, be it punches, kicks or plasma bolts. Although as Yondu'd disarmed him before bundling him into this jail cell – and stripped him and dunked him under a cold faucet long enough that he doesn’t smell of teenage boy, because Yondu might be about as fond as showers as most felines, but that odor  _lingers_ and the last thing he wants is for Kraglin to accuse him of chasing jailbait – it'd take a greater mechanical mind than Peter's to fashion a pistol out of the junk and grub and dusty ornaments that clutter every surface in Yondu's cabin. Nope - Quill is many things, but a genius ain't one of them.

Sometimes, Yondu wonders why he's kept him around so long. There are no great feats of strength, and only the rare stroke of brilliance (which would be more surprising if they didn't occur, based on probability and the number of sticky situations Yondu dumps Quill headfirst into the deep-end of). Peter dogfights like a pro - because he's been begging Yondu to fly since he first arrived (and while there's many things Yondu can, and does, say no to, an eleven year old's big wet eyes aren't one of them). He's got a bone of navigational competence in his body, and one day he might be trusted not to steer the _Eclector_ into the nearest quasar. 

But all in all, he's very... mediocre.

When Yondu first decided to surprise-adopt the brat, rather than delivering him to daddy as promised, he'd barely been able to keep from rubbing his greedy paws. A half-god! Think of all them money-making opportunities. And if Quill masters that nifty  _water-into-wine_  trick of his Terran deity, whose name he invokes whenever he gets spooked or stubs his toe, the Ravagers wouldn't need convincing to let him join their ranks.

Yondu's gamble hasn't paid off. Peter Quill is no stronger, smarter, nor faster than any other Terran his age. However, for some unfathomable reason, Yondu ain't got regrets.

...He might develop some though. Especially if Quill quits fighting every time he's outmatched. That ain't a sign of future captain material.

Yondu leans over him, bare stomach squashing to Quill's back. He breathes on Quill's ear, an angry huff that carries the hot meat-stink of his last meal. “Up and at 'em, boy! Whas wrong – you die, or something?”

Quill landed belly down. He's propped by a stack of datapads that Yondu's been meaning to clear for the past astral-year (which have been used as everything from convenient coasters, to frisbees for when he and Kraglin get bored.) He lies still, as if he's afraid to muss them. 

That's odd. Peter's never still, and he certainly never respects the sanctity of Yondu's workplace. Given Yondu doesn't have much respect for it either, he can't hold that against him.

He grips Quill's chin, feeling soft young stubble against his fingertips. Then twists his face to the light, so the kid can be struck by the yellowed glory of his sneer.

He means to tell him that Ravagers struggle and bite; they don't just flop limp because an enemy's holding their arm captive and crushing them beneath their bodyweight. If Quill don't get his act together and  _fight,_ Yondu'll reconsider his stance on Terrans gracing the galley menu. But the words never emerge. Because Peter's face, usually of a pinkness which, in Yondu's humble opinion, ought to be reserved for candyfloss, is now completely fluorescent. 

Wow. Yondu could strap him to the back of his M-ship and use him as a rearlight.

He smushes Quill's cheek with his thumb, watching the white tint of skin-under-pressure flood red once the digit retreats. Then remembers that he's seen Peter like this before. Only back then, the brat'd been spewing from every orifice.

You see, there's an hour's margin during which the universal antibodies Doc jabs him full of every year take effect. Seven solar-cycles ago, Kraglin had chosen that hour to sneeze on him.

Quill had nearly died of the fever. All the puke meant he'd been dehydrating so damn fast they had to have him hooked up intravenously. It'd been harrowing on multiple levels – both from seeing the closest thing he had to an heir teetering on that perilous knife-edge between life and death, and because Quill had chundered on his coat. Plus, Yondu'd been so pissed at Kraglin that he'd banned him from his bunk for three whole weeks, and had to grouchily squat over his fingers in the interim.

Yondu – and his wrist tendons - ain't suffering none of those traumas again.

“Shit!”

Yondu gets off him. Squashing Quill might be a fun pastime that he plans on making the most of, for the few remaining years where he outweighs the gangly brat. But right now Yondu dreads squeezing the boy's lunch out of either end.

He grabs his forearms, making to spin him round so he can look him up and down properly, get a gauge on how serious this sickness is. How the hell has Quill caught something? Sure, Yondu's room ain't the most hygienic, but Quill ain’t left it in a week! The worst he's been exposed to is the smell of Yondu's socks. Admittedly, those could pass for bioweapons. But seeing as Yondu's got a roomie, for the duration of however long it takes for Quill to get this dumb _leaving_ idea out of his head, he's been shoving his laundry into the steam chamber straight away, rather than ignoring it until it festers and sprouts.

Oddly, Quill resists the blue hands that paw him around to face Yondu. He's clutching himself, like he's trying to stave off going to the loo – something Yondu'd find hilarious in any other circumstance, but which now heralds disaster. 

“Don't -”

“Don't what? Dammit Quill, use yer damn words! What d'you need?” Yondu doesn't give him any guff along the lines of  _if ya upchuck on my desk, ya clean it with that precious toothbrush of yers._  Time is too sensitive. He plucks at his shoulder. Then, when that fails to get Quill to look at him, cups his cheek.

The effect is instantaneous. Peter's gaze snaps to his. Yondu sees fear and bewilderment, for the second before the kid's pupils dilate and he makes a quiet, contented noise, nuzzling the ball of Yondu's thumb.

Shit. He's  _really_  sick. 

He's also clinging to Yondu. His fingers latch onto his sleeve, curling against the fabric as Yondu circles his thumb under Peter’s eye, and they're still so stars-damned  _close_... If Quill decides he's gotta go, there's no way Yondu ain't getting caught with the backsplash. 

Only one thing for it: Yondu firms his jaw. “Kid, I gotta call doc.”

“What?” A widening of eyes, an aggrieved pout. The grip on Yondu's wrist tightens: a shackle of thin Terran fingers and pilot-calluses far softer than his own. “No!”

Yondu plants his spare hand on his hip. “Don'tchu give me lip, boy – I'm cap'n here! You do as I say! An' if I say you gotta go to the medbay -”

“But I wanna stay here! With you!”

Definitely sick.

Yondu shuffles his hand up Peter's cheek – kid doesn't mind, so long as he doesn't rescind contact. He gauges the temperature of his forehead. Warm, yes. Scalding, no. That's surprising, considering the depths of Peter's delirium. Because right now he's looking at Yondu like there's sunlight shining from his ass.

He's also still squeezing between his legs. Yondu has very unfond memories of what this sickness did to Quill's digestive system last time.

He hauls him up under the armpits. Quill has a generous second for his ankles to solidify under him, before he's frogmarched to the bathroom. Yondu dithers over entering with him – because Quill certainly hadn't been up to unbuckling his pants during his previous malady. But Quill walks without too much exertion, despite being curiously hunched at the waist.

Yondu figures that he should let him maintain his dignity while it lasts - although he ain't above snapping a few holopics for blackmail.

“You get in there,” he growls, shoving him far gentler than normal. “Ya sort yerself out, understand? I'mma call Mijo -”

Quill had been nodding along. However, at that his eyes pop wide. “No doctor! Yondu, I don't need her help, I swear -”

Poor boy. He doesn't realize how far the illness has progressed. Yondu points to the mirror, where Quill's rich ruby face gleams against the scuffed and tarnished silver. Then, satisfied that he's made his point, closes the door and sits against it so the boy won't be able to ram it open with his feeble bodyweight.

“Doc,” he snaps into his wristpiece, ignoring Quill's increasingly frantic demands and the tattoo of his fists against the partition. He settles more comfortably, cross-legged with his back to the slab of sheet-metal, and lets the reverberations of Peter's knuckles and boots thrum through him like he's on a massage chair. “We got us an emergency quarantine situation.”


	2. I'm Not In Love

“...So he ain't sick?”

“No sir.” Doc Mijo looks like she's smothering a smirk. However, as her face is fifty percent eyeball, Yondu could be mistaken. “He's fine.”

“Huh.” Yondu creaks back on the medbay chair, arms crossed over his belly. He's in his usual get-up - the thick furred collar, the extravagant bling, the stapled pouch on display in a heartfelt fuck you to the galaxy that took it from him. He eyes his youngest crewman up and down, studious as if he’s pouring over a bank vault blueprint.

Red tints the puppy fat gathered around Quill’s cheeks and chin. It becomes more pronounced the longer Yondu watches. 

Quill hikes his shoulders and shrinks low between ‘em, vulture style, like he wants to retreat inside a shell. As Yondu cocks his head, inquisitive, he deepens in color, from flourescent pink to a rich claret. 

“The hell's that then?”

“Oh?” Nope, it's undoubtedly a smirk. It hooks Mijo's lower left eye, crimping the bulge between it and her mouth as if the fleshy strip is being pinched by tongs. She limps to the bed. It’s attached to a winch, enabling her to haul her patients up and down until the bits that require operation are on level with at least one set of eyeballs. When Quill sits, his toes dangle inches from the ground – but not nearly as many inches as Yondu's would, were he perched besides him. Lanky shit.

“This -” Mijo pats his head. Quill watches her warily, flushing bright enough to eclipse his freckles. “-Is simply a facet of Terran puberty. Completely harmless, I assure you. I'm only surprised it didn't start affecting him younger. I never thought of him as a late bloomer, given his height.”

Well. That's... unexpected. However, just because Quill will always be a gormless, gap-toothed, soggy-eyed eight year old in Yondu's mind, one hand wrapped around Yondu's and the other around his Walkman while he wails for his poor dead momma, the same doesn't hold true in actuality. Time marches on. Everyone's gotta mature sometime. And if this means Yondu can cease his polite (read: rampaging) deterrence of anyone who approaches Quill at the bar, that's a plus.

Yondu never bothered going tee-total. Hell, there's probably a tipple in his bloodstream as they speak. But he misses getting blackout drunk with the boys, like he used to before a Terran was dumped on him by his murderous jackass of a sperm donor. It'll be nice to party it up again, without worrying about looking out for someone too small and fragile to fend off unwanted advances.

All in all, the news is welcome. So Yondu thinks, admiring the way Quill's scrawny chest muscles are filling out while Mijo plugs the all-clear code into his records. Peter Quill's growing up. It's about fucking time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

They trudge from the medbay together. Quill’s natural rougeing has yet to wane.

Yondu drapes one arm across his shoulders. He misjudges the height and pokes Quill in the ear, and his shoulder's gonna protest if he keeps it twisted at this odd angle. But for now it's him and his Terran, who ain't dying and ain't about to slime his coat with semi-digested galley-slops. In Yondu's books, that's worth a grin. One Quill emulates, still blushing.

That expression's gonna fall right off his face once Yondu ushers him back to his cell.

Or not. Because he's put the kid through even more unnecessary trauma than usual today. While Yondu lays claim to being heartless (and will gleefully butcher anyone who disagrees) there's a tiny shard of something buried in his chest - a sliver of old shrapnel perhaps, forgotten since the last time he fell foul of a frag grenade. All Yondu knows is that it sings when Peter's happy. And right now, it'd be kinda nice to hear it.

Yondu's boots crunch to a halt. The corridors are used to constant movement, but sudden stops are unprecedented. The grills bow, creaking as they resettle under his weight. Rust flakes the pipes below. Yondu thumbs over his shoulder, top lip hooked on an underbitten fang. “Wanna go for a ride?”

They've stopped under the emergency airlock partition. When Quill perks, he almost clonks his head. Yondu snickers. Then, remembering those threats of desertion, adds: “Supervised, of course.”

For some reason, that doesn't make the brat deflate. In fact, he smiles wider, a beam so big and so pure it gobbles half his face. “Sure!”

An idea's formulating. Mijo's scans had revealed several anomalies - none of them dangerous, just mild hindrances. A racing heart. High adrenaline. And, most importantly, blood pressure all over the place.

Perhaps Quill's headrush will give Yondu the advantage?

“Race ya there,” he says.

He bursts forwards in an explosion of blue skin and gold chains. They clatter over his chest.

The bewildered "Huh?" and the laughter that follows it, echoes the pound of Yondu's boots as Quill chases his captain around the spiralled decline towards the hangar bay, barging rookies from their path.

While he's convinced Quill could overtake him, what with his endless miles of leg, the boy lags back. He stays a pace behind with his captain, or abreast with him, never moving to take the lead. Yondu could easily find it annoying – like he finds any brown-noser worthy of a boot up the backside and a whistle. But he’s already decided to be happy. His team mascot-slash-pet ain't dying – that's enough to put a smile on any captain's face.

Once they reach the _Milano_ , a grotty old ship that Yondu'd been foolish enough to let Quill name, his hand smacks metal a diced nanosecond before Peter's. He chuckles through his panting. Rounding on the boy, he draws him into a rare elated hug, before shoving him towards the hatch. 

Peter sways dizzily. For a moment Yondu wonders if he banged his head after all – or whether the blood pressure thing might be more of a hassle than Mijo let on. But then another smile blossoms over Quill's face, significantly dopier than the last.

He trails up the gang ramp after Yondu. He doesn't even ask to drive - but Yondu's in a good enough mood to let him anyway.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Out they soar. The _Eclector_ hovers in the middle of nowhere – with the exception of Knowhere itself: a spangled, scaffold-encrusted toad far from the centralized trade routes, which lurks at the edge of their scanners, surrounded by a fuzz of signal-blocking static. They're far enough from the traffic that there ain't nothing to hit. Yondu wouldn't worry even if there were; Quill's shaping up to be a promising dogfighter. When he concentrates on what's through the viewscreen, rather than singing along to his Walkthing, that is.

“Watch it!”

Yondu hijacks control. He wrenches them to one side before Quill can plow them into the _Quadrant's_ broadside, where she sits snuggled in the _Eclector's_ armored embrace. Only when their nosecone is safely pointed at deepspace does he round on Quill to yell. 

“The hell's wrong wi'chu, boy? What were ya even lookin' at?”

The answer's obvious - Yondu's glowering right at him, and Quill’s staring back. But the kid's wily enough to try for a lie.

“Nothing,” he says. His gaze snaps back to where it's supposed to be – on the readouts that are repeating Yondu's warning in neon red lettering across his holoscreen.

“Well, nothin' can wait! Dammit, boy. Ya need to get on my lap and let me steer with ya again, like when you was tiny?”

Quill sucks a sharp breath. His eyes twitch to Yondu again. Losing patience - not that he ever had much in the first place - Yondu leans until the buckles bite his bare pectorals. He smacks the crown of his curly head.

“Quit yer lollygaggin' and fly, dammit boy!”

“S-sorry, sir...”

After wheeling them far away from the _Eclec_ _tor_ (whose gravity ain't significant enough to lull them in, no matter what Quill claims) the tension in the kid's neck finally eases. His shoulders slump to their natural slope.

Today's theme is  _I'm Not In Love. F_ rom what Yondu can gather, it’s about an idiot who decides to sing about how he's in denial about his feelings, rather than locking 'em away where they belong. This is followed by a reel-squeak as Peter fast-forwards to  _Fooled Around and Fell In Love._

Honestly. Don't Terrans have any more original topics to sing about?

When Yondu poses the question, Quill's goofy smile wavers. “What d'you mean? Love's a serious subject, captain.”

If Yondu weren't belted to his seat, crossed straps protecting him from buffets, blasts, and barrel rolls, he'd have laughed himself off of it. As it is, he settles for guffawing for so long that Quill's tape reel winds dry. It makes forlorn clicks until the kid woodenly switches it off. Yondu slaps his thigh, then Quill's, then the dashboard. The spring-mounted bobble-toys, which he glues down as fast as Quill can pry them off, all jiggle. Their blithe plastic faces share his mirth.

Quill ain't so amused. “It's not funny,” he grits. His gloves make a rubbery squeak as they tighten on the controller. “Romance is real, cap'n. C'mon. Look – out there.” He points, to where the gauzy threads of nebula waft in the cosmic wind. The clouds are gossamer, fine as muslin billowing on a laundry line. Brilliant reds, delicate greens, gilt-bright yellows and subtle blues. Like a roving rainbow, the Bifrost in slow-motion. “You gotta admit, that's a good view. The sort of thing you'd wanna share. W-with someone special.”

Yondu tries to imagine dragging Kraglin up here to gaze at a cloud of toxic interplanetary gas. He doubts it’d end well.

“So what'chu supposed to do?” he asks, still chuckling. “You an' this hypothetical special someone of yers? Fuck? Can't see much else goin' in the way of entertainment.”

It's like he's flipped the switch on an air-traffic stoplight. Quill  _glows_.

“I- I mean,” he stutters. He has to mouth each word a minimum of five times before they sound. “O-o-only if you w-wanna?”

A pause. A long one, during which Yondu considers the discomfort of riding Kraglin's dick while one of 'em is strapped to the pilot's chair, and Quill tries to pretend he's not sneaking peeps out the corner of his eye.

There's potential, Yondu thinks, rubbing his chin. He glances overhead, sizing up the spatial difference between his cockpit and Quill's future one. It'll be fine, so long as they lock the  _Warbird_ on autopilot, and steer well clear of the manual override button. And if there ain't no incoming comet hailstorms. Might put a crick in his neck, bouncing over Kraggles under the low ceiling. But that’s a small price to pay. It really  _is_ an amazing view...

Quill's making silent words again. If he keeps swallowing air like that, he'll give himself hiccups. Yondu waits for a generous ten seconds. Then scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Well, boy? You gonna swallow or spit?”

Quill squeaks. It's adorable. Yondu can't help but crane over, ruffling his hair with a smirk. “C'mon,” he says, pointing to the spacedock bored into the _Eclector's_ underbelly. They're approaching her from below. Her plated bodice bulges, like it can barely contain the labyrinth of cooling rods and thrust-regulators and gun ports crammed under her hull. “Let's see if ya can hit the sweet-spot this time, rather than ramming the goddamn wall.”

If Quill gets any redder, he'll combust. “Y-yessir!”

His hands shake at the controls – but Yondu doesn't do as he'd threatened, and perch the boy on his knee like when he was too small to see over the dashboard. The conversation with Mijo cements a truth Yondu has been toying with for the past year, on and off. Like it or not, his pink rugrat is nearly a man. 

Still immature, still foolish. Still in need of the occasional clip round the ear to keep his head from swelling. But maybe Yondu ought to wean him off the patronizing, fun as it is. Give Quill a taste of independence.

“Y'know,” he begins as they tramp down the gangplank. “Ya can head back to the crew dorms, if ya wanna. Stars know I ain't the funnest sleepover buddy for a boy yer age.”

“What?” Quill's steps clomp at a calculated slow gait that will never outmatch Yondu's own. At his words, they freeze halfway through a pace. The stumble brings a half-smile to Yondu's grizzled mug. 

“I ain't repeatin' myself. Maybe ya should turn the volume down in yer headphones if ya don't wanna be deaf by the time yer my age...”

“No, I heard, just. I thought we were... Back there...” Quill's tongue gets in a worse twist than Kraglin's when he's flustered. But he blurts out his point before Yondu can snap at him, pared to a single word: “Why?”

Yondu flashes dirty teeth. “Aw, kid. Don't tell me ya  _like_ beddin' down with daddy!”

Lower-ranking crewmembers mill around the hangar bay. They’re engaging in that age-old art of pretending to be busy to avoid being put on scrubshift. At Yondu's words, coughing fits break out on all sides. Eyebrows are raised and glances exchanged. Yondu ignores 'em.

He fends off accusations of softness every third day of the astral-week. Those who've made up their minds will already have done so, and the others ain't gonna be swayed by a bit of harmless teasing. Especially when Quill reacts so brilliantly. His flush focuses on both cheekbones, which glow hot enough that Yondu could crack an egg on 'em and smell it sizzle. 

“I – I... Gef snores, that's all! And he's in the bunk right above me! It's real loud, and...”

“Earplugs,” Yondu reminds him. “Them's a thing.”

“He farts too!”

“An' I don't?”

“Only if you've been eating Beasties! And... And...” Quill looks around for inspiration. It strikes when he turns one-eighty, craning up at the prow of the _Milano,_ which casts the shadow Yondu is about to exit. “And cap'n? You're the only one who can convince me not to take that ship mid-night cycle and... and go solo!”

He says it slowly, but with growing enthusiasm, like he's just figuring out that his wellbeing is something he can hold over Yondu's head. Dammit. Yondu taught him to be conniving, and while he might regret it on occasion, cultivating a ruthless streak in Quill is probably the only thing that's kept the boy alive. Ain't no point getting angry about it. Not when he was the one to encourage Quill to sniff out others' weaknesses in the first place.

Rather than popping a vein, he wags one finger at Quill while his other hand props on a hip.

“I taught ya too well.”

“That you did.” Smug shit. Well, if he's so desperate to spend time in Yondu's room, which stinks of jockstraps and leather, and Kraglin's pungent hairgel when they can't be asked to find the lube, far be it from Yondu to stop him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yondu is the blindest dumb. Dammit, Peter. He just wants to dad you, not daddy you.**


	3. Sweet Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: non-consensual somnophilia. No full-frontal naughtiness, but I'm leaving a warning just in case. This is the most nsfw the Quilldu in this fic gets - except in Peter's imagination, of course!**

Ain't every day Yondu wakes with a stranger spooned against his back. Not since he and Kraglin decided to try for regular.

Maybe once a month. Twice, tops.

This one is male, according to the binary genitalia-system most species in this quadrant abide by. That only cuts out one sixth of the crew. Frowning into his pillow, smacking his lips and tasting stale mouth, Yondu starts the process of determining their identity.

He's still half-asleep. His mind registers the stranger as _threat_ , but Yondu has lived through enough of those that he can dampen down the adrenaline rush. Being too lazy to turn, he wriggles against them, questing for tentacles or android-limbs, or other such identifying features.

Like any good captain, he has a mental list of which men are indispensable, and which can be safely bumped off should the need arise – or should they try and blackmail their captain after sharing a sloshed bout of mattress-bouncing. The first list is very short. The second, much, much longer. Once he's worked out their identity, it'll be either a quick whistle, a threat, or a good-natured shove, while mentally berating himself for getting so drunk that he forgot he started swigging.

What he's not expecting is for Unidentified Male to moan. Or for that hard lump to prod the seat of his pants, then hitch through a shaky, desperate grind.

Not even Kraglin is that suicidal. And he knows Yondu is marginally less inclined to murder him than the majority of sentient life on board.

Yondu grabs a handful of mattress to prevent the guy from hauling him closer. It's mostly stuffing, bulging out through a shred torn last time Kraglin had him facedown and Yondu mislaid his biting pillow.  “ Hey,” he drawls, after swallowing to make sure that his first Xandarian words this day cycle are comprehensible. “Ya want help with that death-wish?”

The hands currently kneading the front of his coat – because between ignoring Quill's goading for him to let him do backflips in the  _Milano_ , and convincing the Bridge crew that him taking the afternoon off to go flying ain’t shirking his duties, Yondu had lost the will to strip before collapsing – freeze. Yondu squints at them. He flares his crest so red light fills the bunker.

It ain't all that bright. If he's whistling, he can use his implant as a miner's headlamp, but otherwise the glow that wreaths his head is of a softness generally reserved for bio-luminescence and incandescent bulbs. It illuminates the fingers wound through the pelt round his neck. They're dug in deep, kneading the thick fur at a counterpoint to the uncoordinated frottage from behind.

Pink, freckled fingers.

Yondu groans, one hand dropping over his eyes.

 _Terran puberty,_ Doc had said.

“Wake up kid,” he grumbles, staring straight ahead and wishing to the depths of deepspace that he could pretend to never have felt what's currently resting along the seam of his buttocks. It’s through three layers of leather, but unmistakable nevertheless. Any arousal that might’ve been simmering at the thought of morning nookie abruptly dissipates. “I ain't whatever bombshell yer dreamin' of.”

Really, he oughta whip out the arrow and make sure this lesson drills through Quill's skull. Yondu knows from experience how thick that is. Once upon a year, he spent several hours per week bawling lectures at whatever vent duct the kid was holed up in, berating him for everything from stealing Yondu's trinkets to clumsily calibrating the Warbird's nav systems for Terra. Both crimes had been repeated on a fortnightly basis, until Yondu taught Quill to shoot and Quill realized that being a space pirate wasn't all that bad.

But had their lil' blaster-lesson never occurred, Yondu doesn't doubt Quill would still be trying to fly for his native homeplanet. His pet Terran has a stubborn streak longer than a supernova is wide.

(Kraglin claims Quill is almost as bad as Yondu in that regard. Kraglin is also sleeping in crew-quarters, until such a time as he apologizes and buys a shiny trinket to entice Yondu back aboard his dick.)

In the present, Peter goes stiff. Well, a part of him's already stiff – a part Yondu's doing his best not to think about.

“Uh. Boss?”

Quill still ain't released him – kid must be paralyzed in shock.  Yondu smacks his head sideways off the pillow.

“I'mma give you five seconds to get to the bathroom and have yerself some alone time,” he growls. “Understood, Ravager?”

There. Orders. Simple, clean, not acknowledging the problem but neatly circumventing it, giving Quill an out that ain't too embarrassing for either of them.

A part of him shrivels at the thought of loaning his bathroom out for Quill to jerk off in. The steam room is clotted with limescale, but the only spunk allowed to hallow those grotty tiles is his own. (Possibly Kraglin's too, but only if he begs real pretty.) At least this gives Yondu an excuse to make the kid deep-scour every inch of it, once he's done.

Quill, for whatever reason, is still holding him.

Yondu pinches between his eyebrows. “Five,” he says. Then, when that gets no reaction: “Four.”

That snaps Quill from his trance. He scrambles for the bathroom, legs untangling from Yondu's like a disbanding snake orgy. He knees him between the thighs, only narrowly missing his bollocks, and - acting on instinct, Yondu presumes - tries to rub it better. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry -”

Ugh. Sentiment. Yondu rolls as far from that patting hand as he can get without falling off the bed. He buries his face in the blankets, suffocating in his own sour BO, and wonders whether the universe will allow him another five minutes. He deserves it, after this.

“Don't mention it, kid," he grates. "Literally. Don't'chu fuckin' mention it ever, or next time ya don’t get a countdown.”

Kinda a pointless threat, seeing as there ain’t never gonna  _be_ a next time. But Yondu likes the ring of it.

 

* * *

 

Things are tense when Quill slopes out of the bathroom, chin plastered to his chest. More than tense. Uncomfortable.

Yondu doesn't  _do_ uncomfortable, or embarrassed for that matter. And yet here he is, sat at his desk, wishing he'd taken the coward's way out and scarpered to Bridge before Peter was finished.

“You turn on the extractor fan?” he asks, clipped and brusque. Quill nods. Still doesn't meet his eyes. He's just a brat. He doesn't deserve to have fun poked at him for giving into his body's demands while fast asleep. Yondu being Yondu though, can't help but tease.

“Y'know,” he drawls, swinging to straddle the chairback and wagging a finger so the solars glance from a multitude of grubby gold rings. “I normally make guys buy me a drink first.”

It's supposed to be lighthearted. It's supposed to be funny. It's supposed to wash that pensive look, like he's weighing up the benefits of tossing himself from the nearest airlock, off Quill's acne-pitted teenage face.

But Quill only nods, as if he's taking the criticism to heart. He flings his jacket over his broadening shoulders and heads for the hatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Short but sweet. If by 'sweet', I mean 'cringingly awkward'! Thanks for reading, leave comments below**


	4. It's Getting Hot In Here

Life returns to normal after that. 'Normal' by Ravager standards means an abundance of friendly violence: Yondu thwapping Quill on the back of the head or slapping him facefirst into his bowl when he passes him in the canteen. It means letting the kid accompany him on missions to get a feel for the grungier side of the job, as well as some of that action he's been craving. And it means slouching off to the _Warbird's_ cramped washracks together when they tramp up the gang ramp covered in blood.

“Cap'n gets dibs,” says Yondu, shoving Peter into the wall. He rebounds off it, satisfyingly floppy, like one of those giant inflatable airdancer-men who flail in front of rundown stores on every planet between Xandar and Hala.

His wounded 'ouch!' is drowned out by Yondu's chortle. He barrels into the shower and barges the door closed behind him, kicking off boots and pants as he goes. He wore a shirt for this mission - a rare happenstance, but hey, his nipples get perky when he’s cold and he couldn't afford distractions. When he hears the hiss of the sliding panel reopening, he's got that shirt hooked over his head, arms trapped.

For a second, he thinks _fuck, it's an assassination attempt._ Then he remembers that Quill’s the only other life form on board, and even if the kid decides to butcher him, he'd probably screw it up, seeing as that’s his main talent in life.

Yondu tugs the fabric off his implant, pulling when it catches. “What?”

Quill is scowling at the wall, stripping his clothes with shaky hands. “I ain't standing out there and getting itchy,” he says – although the gunk's already dried onto his face and neck, tacking his collar to the skin. He winces as it peels off, yellow flakes drifting to the floor. The fight was over pretty fast, all things considered – then again, most fights starring Yondu don't top a minute. But he forgot how much Jthuoans _spurt._

Yondu scratches a clod from his ear, nose scrunched. Perhaps he can understand Quill's desire to skip basic privacy regulations for the sake of a shower. Washing up with crew ain't nothing new to Yondu. Before he made captain, he plodded to the communal racks once a month with Marty and Charlie and the rest. This ain't no different.

...What makes it awkward is that Quill won't quit _looking_ at him.

If the kid's trying to be subtle, he ain't doing a sterling job. He sucks his underlip, scrawny chest heaving as if Yondu's already turned on the steamer and swamped the air with vapors (blended with evaporated laundry detergent, because the advertising channel guarantees it breaks down stubborn stains). Every few breaths, his eyes swim to Yondu.

Those eyes ain't as big as they looked when his face was half the size, peeping at Yondu through the tatty fronds of his coat.

Kid used to hide there. So Yondu remembers, with a nostalgic twist of a grin. Once upon a year, a tiny Terran would duck under the grungey leather, uncaring for the smell, and snuggle up close with his lil’ ginger head bonking Yondu’s ribs.

Never looked at him, of course. Always with the same angry pout on his face, as if he hated clinging to Yondu for protection. But while Yondu’d started shoving him out into the open after the first month, thinking it was high time the boy thickened his skin, for those first four weeks of Quill’s tenure as a space pirate, the captain had strutted around his Bridge and glared at anyone who looked twice at the spontaneous tumor growth bulging out the leather at his side.

Kid had been scared, that was all. Alone on a spacecraft chock-a-block with ugly faces, most of whom wanted him chargrilled. No wonder he’d sought out comfort.

Yondu hadn’t been too great at providing it. He hadn’t been awful either, and his ego insists that he deserves cookies for saving the brat from his fate at the hands of his papa. But he knows he’ll never make father of the year. That's why the kid never bonded back. If you don’t tell someone they’re the closest thing to a son you’ve ever had, chances are they won’t reciprocate.

But Peter’s  _leaving_ nonsense, and Mijo’s talk of _puberty,_ have clarified to Yondu that he’s running out of time. If he wants Quill to stay in his life (and he _does,_ deep down (deep, _deep_ down, under cross-sectional strata of denial and frustration and _fear_ , fear that the moment he admits he wants something the galaxy will snatch it from him)) he’s got to start doing what he ought to have done when the lad was a sproglet. _Showing_ that he gives a shit, rather than just occasionally being reminded when the light from whatever star they’re orbiting catches Quill’s smile.

Anyway. Those eyes are mighty blue – especially compared to the mottled red of Quill’s face. His gaze roves Yondu for a full five seconds, before Quill remembers he doesn't want to be caught and snaps his head to one side, adam's apple migrating from one end of his throat to the other.

Ugh. Would the brat just _ask_ already?

“Pouch for babies,” says Yondu, pointing to the horizontal slit. Loose skin sags between the staples like stitching in a frayed coat. Then he turns, entirely un-self-conscious, and thumbs to the scar traversing the opposite axis between his shoulderblades. “Crest for whistlin'. Or whas left of it. Any more questions?”

Quill shakes his head. He's so red he looks in danger of catching light, and there's sweat beading on his cheeks, trickling to puddle in the hollows behind his sticky-out teenaged collarbones. Rolling his eyes, Yondu stomps to the far wall and cranks on the sauna so at least the brat has an excuse for looking like he's being broiled.

The atmosphere goes from spaceship to rainforest in a moment. Water thumps around them, heavy as a monsoon. The ceiling is one long shower-nozzle, rust-flecked to the extent that it tints the water orange, drenching the pair in a coppery flood. Quill's hair plasters to his head. Yondu ruffles it, droplets flying from the tip of each clumped strand. He fully expects the kid to shy away – maybe even slip and land on his ass; give his captain something to laugh about. What he's not counting on is Peter's eyes slivering, his throat bobbing faster than ever, and his raw-bitten lips parting around a quiet, near inaudible whimper.

Weird.

Is he hiding a head wound? Being all brave and noble and _stupid,_ like them heroes from his home planet: _John Stamos_ and _Kevin Bacon_ and _Steve Rogers,_ whose names he recites like he’s one of the Temple Women back on Alpha Centauri-IV, listing Anthos's avatars as part of their daybreak mantra? Yondu, like any good captain, decides that if Peter ain't gonna tell him he'd better find out himself. He gives Quill's hair a hearty yank.

Quill _moans._

Not in pain. Oh, how Yondu wishes it was in pain.

Flarkin’ Terran puberty.

Yondu stops pulling. Yondu stops pulling very, very quickly. Yondu stops pulling so quickly, and backpedals so abruptly, that he's the one who loses his balance, feet skidding out in opposite directions across the slippery camber of the washroom floor.

Thud.

“Fuck.”

Really, that sums up his day.

 

* * *

 

No one dares joke about how Yondu went on a mission with Quill and came back unable to sit down. At least, not to his face. But a captain keeps his ear to the ground if he doesn't want to be ousted by the end of his first solar-cycle, and strung up at the galleon's bow as a gory figurehead. While Yondu hears none of the whispers in person, he catches the smirks and the side-eyes as he limps around the bridge.

If a long-lived captain keeps his ear to the ground, he also knows the importance of not gutting his own crew for perceived slights when you've got zero evidence. And so Yondu bears the brunt of the sniggers, and seethes in silence.

 _Bruised tailbone,_ Doc Mijo says.

 _Takes a whole month for the soreness to fade,_ Doc Mijo says.

 _You really should get some R &R and take it easy, _ Doc Mijo says, _because,_ Doc Mijo says, you _ain't as young as you used to be._

Well, fuck that. Doc Mijo can take her diagnosis and shove it up her... Whatever she's rocking under those leather pants. Yondu ain't had a chance to check. Probably yet another eyeball. A sore ass is one thing, but _old?_ He's brigged rookies for less.

“Captain. Specs for ya.” Kraglin saunters over, a long jagged slice of a man. He's got a holopad in one hand, which he smacks against his chest until it fizzles to life, showing the star-charts for the route ahead. His other hand alternates between catching his yawn and scratching his balls.

Someone's just woken up. He ain’t yet apologized, but there’s a new trinket twinkling amid the platoon of bobble-heads, spring-laden wigglewoggle toys, tchotchkes, baubles and snowglobes Yondu likes to keep around his chair (and occasionally distribute across the nav decks, just to annoy them). Yondu supposes he can forgive him. He takes the pad without looking at it, adding it to the teetering stack on his chair arm and wincing at the twinge from his posterior.

“Am I old, Kraglin?”

“Wha-? Cap'n? I, uh -”

“A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer'd be nice.”

“I. Um. You're. Older than me? I think?” Poor man sounds mystified. Yondu sighs, and dismisses him with a wave.

“Get back to work. I’m organizin’ a gig for you, me and the brat. Time we did some good ol' fashioned family bonding, don’tchu think?”

Kraglin’s incredulous expression (and the grumbling that follows it) indicate his disapproval. He controls his volume, never exceeding a mutter under-the-breath, so Yondu decides he ain't obligated to brig him. If Kraggles has complaints, he can transcribe them onto a datapad and slot ‘em into the anonymous survey box, which Yondu cobbled into a waste chute back when he first made cap’n, to be fed into the incinerator like all the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **We have Kraggles! And Yondu being an oblivious idiot! And Quill getting far too much out of having his captain mess with his hair! Leave me your comments, darlings?**


	5. A Spoonful of Beasties

Quill's on engine duty, chipping the crust from the _Warbird's_ thrusters. He's been nagging for a bird of his own as-of-late, but while he's been practising in the Milano since he was a wee sprog, Yondu insists he ain't getting decoupling codes until he's satisfied Quill knows how to clean every part of his girl: wriggling pipe-cleaners into her vents to unclog the spacedust, taking her apart and putting her back together again without frying the coils.

(Quill argues that Yondu just likes having someone do his maintenance work, because he's a lazy SOB. Yondu puts him on indefinite scrub-duties in recompense, but doesn't contradict him.)

He swings by the hangar with a bowl and a can of Beastie worms that Quill eyes up like a hungry baby Bilgesnipe. “Those for me?”

“Nope.” Yondu balances the tray one handed, using the other to haul himself onto his _Warbird's_ wing. His ass doesn’t protest - much - although he’s only two weeks into Mijo’s recommended month of R &R, prescribed on account of him being a geriatric and all.

She can stick that in her bong and huff it. Yondu ain’t _getting on a bit_. He's only thirty-mumble, for stars' sake! He sure as hell ain’t old, and he never will be, not even when the traceries around his eyes deepen into wrinkles, and all that salient musculature Kraglin likes to squeeze when they're testing their mattress-springs starts to droop.

He saunters up the steep incline, glancing into the maintenance pit below. Quill peers after him - or rather, after the Beasties tin. His face is slathered in grease, and he's nigh indistinguishable from the spare parts scattered around him: the  _Warbird's_ undercarriage having been laid open for inspection, while her hull and cockpit remain sealed to the acrid hangar air. But all the oil in the world can't hide the lust in his eyes. Yondu sniggers.

“Be good an' I might throw ya one.”

“Dick,” Quill mutters, just quiet enough Yondu can pretend not to hear. Then, leaning back on the edge of the pit and hooking his elbows over the lip, he squints at the overheads, whose beams divide around the  _Warbird's_ nosecone to form two-thirds of an equilateral shadow. The black slime on his cheeks makes his grin all the whiter in comparison. “You come to supervise, captain? Or do you just like feeling tall, when I'm down here and you're up there?”

Yondu sucks Beastie-juice off his middle finger before showing Quill how well he's cleaned it.

The kid laughs. It’s out of sync with the _ooga chaka_  incantation, just audible from where his music box sits, elevated above the splatter-line on a stack of spare flaps. The sound warms Yondu from the inside (although he chooses to blame it on the grog in his belly). He props his boots on the nosecone, leaning so his back's cushioned by the cockpit glass and his weight’s off his twinging tailbone, and lazily tosses Beasties into his mouth. Once Quill's finished discombobulating Yondu's reverse-polarizers, or whatever else he's fiddling with down there, he clambers up to join him.

He plonks his toolbox down. The clatter makes Yondu's low-dozed eyelids snap. One dirty hand sneaks towards the Beasties tin, and is dissuaded by the mash of a fist across the knuckles. While Quill's whimpering, Yondu turns his palm over, tracing blunt blue fingers over the fragile wristbone, the lovelines, the swell of the thumb. He surveys the trail of prints, which match the hand's shape and dimensions, and are placed at teenager-sized intervals along his wing.

“Congrats. Now ya get to give my bird a bath as well as an overhaul.”

Quill groans, tugging free with a wince. “Dick,” he says again. This time it's loud enough that Yondu can't feign deafness. He scowls, pushing out of his lounge, and wags an orange-stained fingernail under Peter's nose.

“Careful, boy. I'm still yer cap'n, and you'll show me respect if ya know what's good for ya.” And then, because let it never be said that Yondu doesn't have a sense of humor - “Plus, that dick's a mighty fine piece. Ain't much of an insult.”

Rather than proclaiming 'gross!' loud enough to startle the rats who nest in the hangar roof, Quill's eyes slant, seemingly against his will, to Yondu's crotch.

Aw shit.

 _Terran puberty._ How could he have forgotten? Yondu hastily crosses his legs.

Poor kid can't help himself – it's just natural biological urges. Hell, he'd probably get turned if he looked at  _Kraglin's_ non-existent hairy ass in the showers (although really, it'd be hypocritical of Yondu to judge). It's gonna be mighty hard toning down the banter, given as that's Yondu’s main means of communication outside of threats and insults. But if it'll make things less awkward between them, Yondu will suffer on through.

“ _Anyway,"_  he says. "You ain't gonna be a brat much longer, y'know.” For some reason, Quill looks delighted. He shuffles from asscheek to asscheek, smile wriggling as if it's struggling to keep his excitement contained. Yondu crooks a brow and continues. “So here's the deal. There's a big ol’ Nova cruiser due to pass through the Beruit Asteroid Belt a fortnight from now - some malfunction means they gotta steer off course, away from patrolled starways. Makes ‘em ripe for the boarding. How's about you an' me go head 'em off? Kraglin knows dem trade routes well...”

He pauses when Quill's elated grin turns topsy-turvy. “Kraglin's coming too?”

What's he sound so disappointed for? “You boys fightin' again?” Yondu smirks at Quill, face scrunching on one side. “Honestly. Yer young enough to get away with it, but him? I'm disappointed.”

Peter squares his jaw. “I'm not _young_ anymore, Yondu! You just said so – no take backsies!”

“ _Not gonna a brat much longer_ implies that for the time bein', a brat ya remain. _”_   He scoops up the last of the Beasties, plonking the spoon into the empty can, and – noticing the dart of Peter's eyes – sighs and forks over the bowl of protein paste. “Ain'tchu had yer rations?”

“I'm a growing boy!”

“But not a kid, he says...”

Rather than taking the jibing gracefully, or giving as good as he gets, Peter tucks his knees to his chest, bowl cradled between them, and treats Yondu to a flat glare. “I'm _not_ a kid. I'm old enough to fly. To drink -”

“Not under Nova regulations, you ain't.”

“-To f-fuck.”

“Not that either, if you ain't mature enough to say the damn word without stuttering.” Yondu rolls his eyes, uncrossing his thighs so that he can push to his feet. The _Warbird's_ suspended in a hammock of straps, slippery with the residue from a decade's worth of exhaust fumes. Yondu's movement makes her list from side to side, but it's nothing compared to when the _Eclector_ hits cosmic turbulence. Yondu rides out the buffets surfer-style, stifling a yawn. He scoots the dirty Beasties tin over to smack off Quill's toolbox. “Take that to the waste chute, wouldya? There's a good boy.”

Peter sputters, scrambling to his feet alongside. He has to hang on Yondu's boredly offered shoulder for stability, waving his half-finished bowl. “I-I'm not a fucking _dog_ either, Yondu. I'm a man! A man, just like you!”

“A lil' more pink round the edges,” Yondu drawls. Peter swings a punch – but he's not really looking to hurt, and Yondu fends him off with an upraised forearm and a chuckle. “Alright. Yer a man, you sayin'? _Prove it._ ”

Peter, for some reason, looks excited at the prospect. He shakes out his stinging fist. “R-r-really?”

“ _Really-_ really. Come on this gig with me. Complete the mission. Make nice with Kraggles – or at least, act professional. He's my favorite, after all.”

Quill is usually a red-faced, hollering little delight to provoke. But as the track from his Walkman clicks to the next song – _Come and Get Your Love,_ the main voice of which is close, Quill claims, to what Yondu would sound like if he ever deigned join his crew for a round of drunk karaoke – the boy's shoulders slump. The rest of his body looks tempted to follow. Yondu scoffs.

“ _What?_ ”

“I just. I thought you meant... I thought you meant you and me were gonna -” Quill stops himself. His mouth hangs half-open around his next word. Lip-reading ain't a skill starway-trawlers bother honing – the sheer amount of translator-compatible languages makes it redundant. You might be able to understand what a skrull's nattering about, but that doesn't mean you can recognize the shapes made by their wrinkly green lips, much less match them to what's fed into your ears with a millisecond lag, through the chip that's injected into most species' necks at birth.

Yondu makes a valiant effort. “Fight? Nah, I'd pulverize ya. Lookit this -” He deals Peter's stomach a viper-fast blow, albeit one that utilizes only a quarter of his strength. Peter folds, opening the back of his head to a noogie and a brief hair-ruffle. “Skinny a-hole. Gotta get some meat on yer bones, before you can go around callin' yerself a _man._ Hell, boy. Galactus could use ya as a toothpick.”

“I'll get bigger!” Peter promises, like he thinks Yondu cares much either way. In all honesty, being small's good for thieving. Yondu had been a key member of Stakar's grab-and-bag team for this very reason, back when the Ravagers first popped the lock on his shackles and showed him what a full meal looked like. He'd been a thin thing, all joint and rib. No point wasting food on canon fodder you didn't expect to reach twenty-five. Course, that'd changed once he discovered Beasties. “I'll grow big and strong – mom said I'm gonna be taller than my dad!”

Best steer clear of the paternity-question. Quill will find out one day that his daddy is quite literally planet-sized, but for now there ain't no harm in letting him believe that he's on his way to overtaking him. Yondu flashes a friendly stripe of teeth. “M’sure ya are. You, boy, are gonna make yer cap’n proud.”

He means every word - and for once, it looks like Peter believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments are my lifeblood!**


	6. Sparks Fly

After dragging Quill to the medbay to check for ruptured organs – Quill  _says_ he's fine after Yondu's suckerpunch, but Quill says a lot of things, and Yondu's learned the hard way to never take the kid's opinion on his own health seriously – they head to the armory to kit Peter out with a gun.

Quill favours element weaponry: pistols that convert solid to liquid and liquid to gas, and back again in the opposite direction, all with the squeeze of a trigger. It ain’t a genus of artillery that Yondu's ever been able to get to grips with. Oh, he'll use anything in a pinch. He's brained people with shot glasses and garroted them with silk scarves and loincloth ropes. But guns? There's something  _impersonal_ about them. Give him an arrow, any day.

Quill doesn't have that option though. Not unless Yondu finishes his beta-prosthetic a helluva lot sooner than scheduled. When he started toying with that project, he'd intended it as a gift for Quill's twenty-first. But plans conceived while five or six rounds over the eight were rarely the most pragmatic. Considering how long it's taken him to gather the components (let alone study his crest in a mirror, using a magnifying glass, a swivel-chair, and a lot of inventive yoga) it'll likely be finished by the time Quill's popping Yondu into a nursing home.

Or popping him between the eyes. He hasn't worked out which he'd prefer. But hey, he has plenty of years left before senility strikes. He'll make that decision when he gets to it. 

There's also the problem posed by Quill's professed desire to light his own path across the starways – although to be honest, Yondu's starting to disbelieve it. Doesn't the brat know that a good threat should only be issued once? It becomes less believable with every repetition, almost like the brat's worked out that Yondu will keep close tabs on him so long as he claims he's gonna split.

Why Quill would  _want_ to spend time with him is a mystery. Kid spent the first year crying at him, the second year ignoring him, and the third year trying to punch him. Now at sixteen, having lived in space for the same number of cycles he'd spent crawling around his precious mudball, his and Yondu's relationship has levelled out at an awkward equilibrium between good-natured teasing and screaming matches.

But Yondu ain't gonna let this chance slip him by. He harbors his doubts as to Quill's liberally-bandied claims –  _I'm gonna steal your M-ship and run, I'm gonna join Stakar's crew, I'm gonna find a cap'n who'll respect me and call me a man –_ but he keeps them severely shtum. Unfortunately, his crew don't.

“Y'know,” mumbles Kraglin as they stand propped side-by-side against the armory wall, Yondu with arms crossed and one boot kicked up to rest on the piping while Kraglin lounges close enough that he can see the oily gleam of lead underteeth and smell his putrid breath. “He's only sayin' that shit to get ya to pay him attention, sir.”

Yondu’s smile grows. He's taught Quill how to manipulate people! If that ain't worth the flicker of pride in his chest, as Quill selects his gun and scrunches his face into an unnecessary squint before facing the target sideways on and nailing it straight through the bullseye, absorbing the kickback with his arm just like Yondu taught him, Yondu don't know what is.

Kraglin's looking at him weirdly. “Sir?”

Yondu is careful to scrub his expression of sentiment before he faces him. “What?”

Kraglin licks his thin, downturned lips – which means he's contemplating his answer, which in turn insinuates that answer ain't something Yondu wants to hear. Yondu holds up a hand.

“Stow it. Today's a good day, Kraggles. Galleon's running smooth. Ain't been a single explosion. And you, me, an’ our dear darlin' Quill are gonna go steal some shit. Don't say nothin' to ruin it.”

Kraglin sighs. “Yessir.”

Good lad. He really  _is_ Yondu's favorite – and Yondu makes sure he knows it, bumping their shoulders and subjecting what little ass Kraglin boasts to a pinch as they break for the M-ships.

There's a sharp intake of air from behind. Quill barges between them.

He can't knock Yondu flying because Yondu's got a center of gravity that could be mistaken for an anchor, and wouldn't budge for anything less than a Nova cruiser at terminal velocity. Kraglin, on the other hand, is bowled face-first into a wall.

“Ouch,” he grumbles. But it ain't like he can get much uglier – and anyway, Yondu keeps him around for what's behind his fly-zip and what's between his ears, not for his big nose and underwhelming jaw. He stomps behind Peter, glowering, and offers the poor guy a hand. Kraglin accepts it. He shakes the ring from his head, gurning most unattractively and depositing the majority of his bodyweight on Yondu while his brain muddles up from down.

“The hell was that about?”

“Just wanted to show you my new gun,” says Peter breezily. He brandishes the weapon – ignoring Kraglin's squeak and the way he compresses all four gangly limbs into Yondu's shadow. “Look! It's loaded!”

Yondu rolls his eyes. He smacks the barrel away. “Didn't ya learn  _nothin'_ from our lessons, boy? Keep that trained on the ground, or click dem capsules out and stick 'em in your pockets for later.” He'll have to remember not to roughhouse with the kid – should one of those glowing beads burst, the three of them will be engulfed in ice, fire, rock or a localized typhoon. “And yeah, yeah. Very impressive. Not like I ain't seen 'em a thousand times before. Congratulations though, Quill – yer the first idiot to point one at me loaded and live.”

Quill sticks his tongue out at Kraglin as Yondu strides towards his  _Warbird_. But hey - boys will be boys.

 

* * *

 

No matter how fervently he denies it, his tailbone is still subjecting him to the occasional twinge. As gradients are worse than flats, Yondu  hustles his subordinates ahead of him, not wanting them to watch him waddle up the gangplank. This turns out to be a mistake. When he clambers up the cockpit ladder, wincing all the while, he finds that Quill has taken up residence on the pilot's chair. Kraglin is making sad eyes at him from the corner - idjit never was good at discipline.

That’s okay. Yondu can dish out enough for both of them, in spades.

“Boy? Scat.”

“Not a boy,” Quill reminds him. He does precisely the opposite.

Oh no. Yondu props a hand on each hip, coat flaring around his calves. “You ain't flyin',” he growls. “Maybe that old hunk o'junk -”

“She’s called the  _Milano._ ”

“Stupid fuckin' name – howzzat supposed to strike fear into the hearts of them yer chasin' down?” Yondu shakes his head. “Anyway. You ain't getting sole piloting rights to yer precious bird until I give ya the codes, and you sure as heck ain't flyin' mine.  _Scat._ I won't ask a third time.”

Quill pouts. A little  _too_ much, like he's playing up the petulance: pushing his bottom lip out and simpering at Yondu like a sex-bot. It's kinda disturbing. Yondu swaggers to the chair, shoving Quill's head to one side when he fails to evacuate. “Careful, boy. You schmooze at men like that and they's gonna think yer askin' for somethin'.”

“And what,” says Quill, with typical teenage brashness, “if I am?” And he looks at Yondu from under his lowered lashes and does his best to smolder.

There's a zit on his chin that's bulging like a volcano on Morag. His stubble rivals Kraglin's for patchiness – who looks like he’s inhaling a snigger. Yondu is less subtle about it. He damn near  _guffaws,_ hearty and belly-aching, clapping Quill on the shoulder.

“Gonna have t'work on that one a bit before ya use it on gents in a bar, kiddo,” he says. Quill ain't corrected him about the  _schmoozing at men_ part, but Yondu ain't gonna interrogate the brat. He can't judge, not when he's amenable to sitting on dick five nights out of seven. His first mate's, preferably – who skulks forwards to grin at Quill's reddening face, close enough that Yondu can sling a companionable arm round his waist.

“Lookit, Kraggles,” he says, nodding to Quill's impression of a brothel light. “Our lil' boy's all growed up.”

“I'm not little! I'm taller than both of you!”

“But I can still whup yer ass, boy, and don'tchu forget it.”

Quill's face remains florescent, but his eyes and mouth widen in synchrony. “Whup... My ass?”

“Hell yeah! Don't care how tall ya get, beanpole. I can still put'cha over my knee.” Besides him, Kraglin's chuckles have ebbed to sputters, chokes, and silence. Yondu frowns and elbows the nearest bony hip, making him yelp so he knows he ain't cut off his oxygen. “What?”

Quill mumbles 'nothing' to the inside of his collar. He curls over himself like he's done fifty sit-ups too many, and the muscles in his abdomen have welded closed. Yondu relinquishes his armful of Kraglin - not without regret - and leans over the back of the chair. His breath rakes the parting along Quill’s ginger crown. “Sit up straight, boy. Don't tell me ya got spacesickness – we ain't even lifted off!”

“Sir,” Kraglin snaps, before Yondu can uncoil Quill  by force. “Sir. C'mon. Let's. Uh. Let's make sure we got full fuel pods, yeah?”

“But I checked 'em before we got in. _.._ ”

Kraglin’s got that set to his bushy brows that promises nights on the couch. Or, as Yondu’s the only one with a private cabin, nights spent rolling over his mattress solo, which is too big to be warmed to adequate snuggling temperatures by any bodycount lesser than two.

Yondu takes orders from no man - hasn’t since there was a collar around his neck. Kraglin’s remain unspoken though, so he supposes it doesn't hurt to oblige him.

He slouches after his mate, giving Quill's hair a parting ruffle that makes the kid exaggerate his woodlouse-impersonation. It ain’t far - Yondu saunters down the ladder, as much as a man with a stiff tailbone can, and keeps pace with Kraglin's long legged lope for the five-ish steps it takes for them to reach the engine compartment. Quill might lever off any trinkets Yondu leaves tacked to his precious  _Milano_ , but he has no such control over the  _Warbird's_ interior. A hundred beady glass eyes follow the Ravagers’ passage. Stacks are heaped in every corner. The trinkets - all plastic, or shatter-proof glass - only lack a dust coating because they tumble across the floor whenever Yondu performs a barrel roll.

Kraglin finds them creepy, especially when he’s trying to sleep, shit, or wedge a certain piece of his anatomy into Yondu’s corresponding slot. The engine room is the only place aboard that Yondu never lets fall prey to his hoarding tendencies: last time he made that mistake he found his thrusters gummed with melted plastic and a hefty repair bill. When the door reels shut, they’re immersed in solitude. No eavesdropping baubles besides those Yondu stows on his person.

Yondu motions to the reactor. Its viridescent glow washes this compartment as green as foxfire in a marsh. “Alone at last, huh?”

Kraglin nods. Then shoves him backwards against the railing: the only safety net between them and several thousand volts of sizzly death.

Yondu blinks. He peers at the engine coils, which hum like an overcharged bug zapper. If he had bodyhair he’d be itching; as it is, his beard prickles like ants are scuttling through the stubble. Kraglin looks like a bilgesnipe mid-mating display, his Mohawk forming a spiky crest.

“Are you tryin' to fry my brains?” Yondu asks. A hint of fang glitters in his grin. “Cause that ain't gonna end well for ya, boy.”

“No,” grunts Kraglin, pressing all lanky six-plus feet of himself against Yondu's body. This is impressive, given there's considerably less of Yondu height-wise. He's broader, however. When Kraglin bends to one side, winding against Yondu like a bony constrictor, their line of contact is continuous. He ducks his head to suck on an earring, then catches it between his teeth when that elicits a happy purr. “I'm thinkin' about’chu puttin' Quill over yer knee.”

Well, that saps the fun right out of the mood. Yondu's nose wrinkles. He tugs, hoop still caught between Kraglin's teeth, scowling at the sting.

“Here? Now? Seriously, Obfonteri?”

“And,” Kraglin continues, words muffled as he shakes that same earring, gentle as a dog with a toy it doesn't want to break, “M’thinkin' about how much I'd love t'do that to ya.”

“Here?” Yondu asks again. If he sounds incredulous, it's due to the logistics. They're stood on a slim wire walkway, suspended above the fuel pods on a rickety scaffold. It's within prodding – and immediate dying – range of the generators. Kraglin smirks at him. He decouples from the earring with a pop that leaves the hoop spit-shined, and licks the taste of metal from his lips.

“More of a challenge, huh? Ups stakes an’ all that...”

Yondu’s ass is already sore from its impromptu introduction to the bathroom floor. And Quill ain’t twenty feet away from them, albeit separated by a mile’s worth of compacted insulation-tubing, which stuffs his ship’s wall cavities like entrails in a gut. And there’s a thousand and one reasons why Yondu should decline, the foremost of which being that  _they have a mission to be getting on with._

But Kraglin’s making that wolfish smirk of his, rare and all the more coverted for it. Yondu finds his  _no_ withering in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Turns out that Kraglin is fun when he's jealous. Quill is significantly less so.

The pair of them stumble back into the cockpit twenty minutes later, Kraglin's hair spiked with static and Yondu getting shocked whenever he touches a conductive surface – which, being as the M-ship is made of metal, means all of them.

Quill has unhunched from his braced-for-impact position and migrated to the co-pilot's seat. A tissue scrap clings to his sleeve. It's conspicuously damp. Kid must've had to blow his nose, or something.

“It doesn't take that long to check fuel levels,” he snaps as Yondu gingerly lowers himself into the pilot's chair – then, when that proves too painful, shudders up again and motions for Kraglin to take his place. “What were you two doing? I thought we were supposed to be on a mission!”

“We are. Just ain't blasted off yet.” It's hard to think when you can feel the impressions of your mate's fingers on your behind, splayed out and thin as the straps on a cat o'nine tails. Despite this, Yondu notices how Quill's watching him. He absorbs his navy-tinged ears, the bruise on the earlobe from where Kraglin damn near yanked the ring from its mooring, and the matching stain on his throat, lurking below the fur collar. And, of course, the way he jolts whenever his pants rub flesh.

Stupid skintight leather.

The kid's eyebrows crush his nose. The skin around his mouth is pinched to whiteness. He doesn't even ask for the mission specs. Just pops his headphones on and amps the volume until the beats of the  _ooga chaka_ song must be making his brain vibrate, like jelly between two subwoofing engines.

“C'mon,” he says, loud to compensate for his attempt at inducing premature deafness. “Let's get this over with.”


	7. Stand and Deliver

Mission's a simple apprehend-and-rob. A cruise ship has come a cropper in a minefield of incendiaries leftover from the last inter-Empire war, some extinct and others dormant, scattered through the asteroid belt like caltrops. They’re still blasting merrily away as Yondu draws level, noting the swirl of spark-flecked smoke from the cruiser’s thrusters. The explosions are visible: tiny puffs of red far beyond where vision would be impeded by a horizon line if they were planetside. It’s a chain reaction, one that will blaze until there's nothing left but drifting dust, and another detonation zone to be marked off on a Nova map, too late to be of any use.

Fireballs snuff as soon as they ignite. From this distance they look tiny.  But Yondu sees the scorches, graphite-dark and smudged like charcoal, which blacken the cruiser’s side.

She’s not _severely_ damaged - not enough to send out an SOS. That's good. Means there won't be other scavengers converging on their position, hungry for a taste of Imperial finery.

Yondu's shared hunts before. He hasn’t had a choice. His faction are rogue, operating without resources or an army at their backs. There are no safety nets, and he can’t always justify the lines Stakar draws in the moral sandpit: _no deals with slavers, or traffickers, or anyone who trades in kids._ Hell, Yondu's worked with the Kree in a pinch - but he hasn't liked it. At the end of the day he’s a glutton, and less competition means more fat to chew.

Right now, the cruiser is a wounded straggler and they're the only predators within pouncing range: two blips on the scanner, marooned in the Black, alone for a lightyear around. The cruiser has diverted from the main trade routes. That's good news for Yondu. Those routes are patrolled, making them suitable hunting grounds only for Ravager crews who are backed by the Ogordian brass. Charting a course through No Man's Space, the cruiser is due to pass fifty kliks from where Yondu's clan have established their territory.

Usually only the slimmest of pickings stray this far afield. This is a rare opportunity, and Yondu intends to milk it. He'll board 'em with an offer of assistance, promising a convoy to defend against bandit hordes. Then he'll whistle through the cap'n while Kraggles guts first mate, invite his own bandit horde to join them (who are are a jump away, out of scanning range), and shake each stinking-rich, diamond-adorned passenger upside down over a swagbag until it rattles more than they do.

First things first though. He’s gotta win their trust.

The cruiser's a beaut, despite being more singed around the edges than Quill’s baking attempts. Her streamlined frame is as sleek as it’s redundant, given the lack of air-resistance, Yondu whistles to himself as his headlamps bounce off mirrored observation decks, symmetrical thrusters, and a flank which, were it not for the charring, would be nacre-smooth.

As with any vessel of value, that flank bristles with guns. It ain't  _brimming_ though: a small but vital distinction. The ratio between canons and chrome remains skewed in favor of the latter. She's armed, but she ain't no warship.

However, unless her captain's skull is denser than her hull plates, they'll be expecting attack. She's a prime prize now they've left the trade routes. Hopefully a lone M-ship won't arouse suspicion, but Yondu’s not gonna place any bets.

It’s a good call. Next moment, before Quill and Kraglin remember that they’re here to rob the damn ship rather than gawp at her, Yondu’s cockpit holoprojector clunks on.

“Identification request, incoming.”

The _Warbird’s_ AI ain't no Mainframe. It collects syllables from every conversation that’s passed through its rust-speckled relays. As a result, it hitches and jerks about the octaves, and Yondu can't resist nudging Quill's shoulder. “Hey, brat. Sounds worse than you mid-puberty.”

“Almost as bad as you trying to sing, cap’n.”

Yondu would smack him, but there are other things to occupy his hands. He flicks the switch that diverts control to Kraglin's console, and flaps vaguely in the direction of Quill's head while he thumbs the flashing icon and answers, compressing the mic button only for the duration of his speech. “This is the Nova Ship _Milano._ Heard you boys was havin' trouble?”

Quill leans into the cuff. Yondu curls his fingers through a gingery mop, warmed by proximity to Quill's head. Kinda nice – like petting a fluffy animal. One who whispers, in far too hopeful a tone: “This is your ship, boss. Why’d you call her _Milano?”_

“Cause that ain't registered as the personal dogfighter of a Ravager captain.”

“But why _Milano?_ You could've chosen any other name. Unless - ha! I knew you liked it!”

Kraglin is quick to stomp on his glee. “S’just the first thing he thought of, dumbass. Don’t go thinkin’ yer special.”

He sounds waspish. Yondu, of course, is delighted. Seems Quill ain't the only one to want him to himself.

It’s flattering to be so popular - even if the attention’s from his long-term exclusive-ish partner, who’s attached to his hip as securely as his implant is fused to the bones of his skull, and the kid they raised (or kept alive into adolescence; same difference). Yondu would have started spending more time with Quill years ago, if he’d known how much it pissed Kraglin off. He leaves his hand right where it is. Adds in a ruffle which has Quill straining against his seatbelts, half-across his lap and squirming like an eager puppy.

Kraglin watches them in the reflection. When Yondu blows him a kiss, he snaps his eyes dead ahead and directs his scowl at the nearest gun port. He has to keep readjusting his hands on the throttle so he doesn’t snap it. But that's only fair - so Yondu thinks as he rearranges, searching for an angle that'll relieve the hot lances as leather tacks to his blazing buttocks and the seat.

Their contact aboard the cruiser has had ample time to run that designation through the Xandarian infoweb. Yondu prods the button again. “Repeat, this is the Nova Ship _Milano._ Callsign bein' broadcast.”

It's one they extracted from a captive corpsman a coupla years back (along with his kneecaps, several tendons, and all but one toenail). This is the part where they all hold their breaths and pray the Nova filing department is just as shambolic as under the last Prime, and that their callsign hasn't been logged as _missing, presumed dead._ It's a tense moment – ruined by the quiet warble of _Fooled Around and Fell in Love_.

That’s Quill’s track of the moment. It always seems to be blasting when Yondu’s in the room, and - as he conveys to Quill around his snarl - if he hears that chorus one more time he’s gonna hand the kid over to a Xandarian adoption agency.

The tape squeaks to a halt. “Sorry,” Quill whispers.

Yondu’s still glaring at him as the transmitter bleats. “I thought Nova M-ships had been discontinued.” Their contact uses his voice this time, rather than a robotic read-out. That’s good and bad. A mind is easier to manipulate than circuit boards, but Yondu can hear the mistrust in his words. He won’t be ushering them aboard with a red carpet anytime soon, that's for sure. “And your signature is old-school. You don't have docking permission. Advance any further, and we fire.”

Yondu waves up his thermal imaging screen. Inside the nearest canon is a throb of gathering charge. There's nothing visible through the windscreen other than a silent judder, as the gun, its barrel larger than the _Milano_ is long, vibrates in its mooring.

He does his best to sound frightened.

“No need for all that! We'll be on our way if ya want us to be – we's from an old outpost, y’know? One of the edge-of-territory watchers, practic’ly stationed in No Man’s Space. Ain't all caught up on the tech yet.” He makes his laugh higher than usual and keeps chattering, letting his mouth run like men tend to when they're begging for their life. “Fuckin' underfundin' – those fat krutarkin’ _Hutt-slugs_ at the top of the pile give us a pittance an' expect us to spin pure fuckin' adamantium! M'mighty jealous of you lot who went private, lemme tell ya. Shame I missed my chance. You ever worked for an Empire, buddy?”

At the very least, Yondu's performance ought to convince the contact that they're cowed by his cruiser’s superior firepower. In truth, while Yondu knows a volley would pulverize them, the _Warbird_ is sturdier than most fresh-from-the-production-line models. Her forcefield can withstand a single point-blank shot. By the time the haze from that has cleared, they'll be long gone.

But Yondu ain't ready to give up on this haul. To work in this employment sector, you gotta be entrepreneurial, you gotta be glib, and you gotta play people into your pocket until they damn near beg you to rob them. First off though, you have to find common ground.

“Yeah,” says the voice, after a lengthy pause.

“You miss it?”

“Hell no. Leaving was the best choice of my life.”

Yondu chuckles. “Damn straight. They keep sayin' I'mma be reposted planetside again – _just another six weeks,_ they say, _just another six._ But it's been six frutarkin' _months_ since I requested transition, and I ain't smelt a whiff of air that ain't been through both me and the oxygenerator a thousand times over. S'like chokin' to death on yer own gas.”

From the other side of the line, there is, however reluctantly, a giggle. It's echoed by Quill, although he seals his lips shut when Yondu sneers, sitting up straight like his leathers have been starched. 

“Whassit like then?” Mirroring Quill's posture in reverse, Yondu cranks back his pilot's chair until he can prop his boots one atop the other on the depowered dash. Kraglin nudges them to the side, just so they don't obstruct their ballast-dropping button – which'll be useful if they leave with missiles on their tail. Yondu lets himself be moved. “C'mon tell me. Ferryin' rich old sods around – issat really better than Corps work? Might have myself a career change if so.”

The contact’s voice thaws with each answer. He’s young, Yondu realizes – not so young as to be naïve, but probably closer to Kraglin's age than his. Ain't been chewed up and spat out by a cynical galaxy, not yet. And, like most young men awaiting promotion, this one loves to bitch.

“Honestly? They treat us all like wait staff. I'm a comms officer, you know – damn  good one too. But no, as soon as they see the uniform it's 'fetch me this', 'fetch me that'. And company policy says we've got to smile along...”

“The bastards,” says Yondu fervently. The laugh sounds again.

“The bastards,” his contact agrees. “I'm genuinely considering going back to the Corps.” Then, with a wistful sigh - “The cruises are just so _long._ You think a six month posting's bad? Try a year. We barely ever get port-leave, as we're all on tight shift rotations. I've been telling my partner I love her through a holopad for so long I'm afraid she's forgotten what I sound like without static.”

“I ain't seen my wife neither,” Yondu says, bypassing the sting in his ass and Kraglin's eye roll. “No one but me on our station - plus a kid who's barely regulation age, and some Hraxian shithead.” The Hraxian shithead smacks his arm, and Peter sinks satisfyingly low in his chair. Yondu continues, letting his voice veer into the maudlin. “Ain't had a blowie in so damn long...”

A quiet groan. “ _Don't_ talk to me about blowjobs.”

“Well, I'll tell ya what, Mr No-name.”

“Dey. Call me Dey.”

“Right, Mister Dey. If ya let me come aboard an' talk to yer captain about us lot at the outpost givin' ya some sort of escort through the Black, I'll smuggle a bot-hooker aboard when we hit port and leave you two alone together.”

“No can do, I'm afraid.”

Dammit. Pushing further would surpass social nicety. Yondu's about to slam his fist into his palm and declare this job a bust. He'll go back to the _Eclector,_ rally his top dog-fighting team, and pepper the ship with laserfire until she crumples under her own artificial gravity. They can sweep the wreckage with detectors until they've extracted all the gold. It's messy, it's long, and it's dangerous compared to going in undercover – more casualties means more attention from the Nova, which ain't something a faction as small as Yondu's can afford. Plus, the longer they linger around the scuppering site, sniffing through the shrapnel for glints of shine, the greater the chance that others will smell blood in the water.

Luckily, Dey continues. “To the second part, that is. I wouldn't like my wife to use a bot, so it's only fair...”

Aw. Ain't he loyal. Maybe Yondu'll make the effort to keep him off the kill list. Dey finishes his speech, accompanied by the backpeel of a panel from the ship's glistening side. “Your ship is welcome aboard. We could use all the help we can get. Now hurry up and dock - there's all sorts of scum lurking in the Black.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Taaaaalk toooo meeee (talk to me) Taaaaalk meeeee toooo (Talk to me)**


	8. Your Money or Your Life

“Stand an' deliver!”

“Oh my god. The coat, the necklaces... Holy flarknads, you're Adam Ant.”

Yondu lowers his pistols. His arrow flits in a wide perimeter, fending off any enterprising heroes among the cruiser's Bridge crew. He wonders if he ought to be offended. “Ahdahmmy what-now?”

The passengers have been herded into the ballroom. Standing under the floating chandeliers in a gazelle-like huddle, they all look equally confused. Kraglin just rolls his eyes.

Quill's focus splits; he alternates between glaring at the man he's menacing into handing over his cufflinks, and blushing at Yondu. “Nothing,” he mumbles. “Terran thing.”

Yondu's got a job to do, and the last thing he needs is to launch the kid on one of his spiels about the glories of Terran culture. He puts Quill's creeping glow down to youthful exuberance, and ignores him.

 

* * *

 

If the ship is shiny and silver on the outside – “Very glam rock!", Peter exclaims, and Yondu nods along like he knows what he’s talking about – its interior is classic in comparison. The architects have channelled Asgardian decor, minus the flounciest flourishes. Everything is embellished with a lean towards taste rather than ‘how much gold can we cram onto each surface'.

The ballroom is a step above and beyond. The floor is covered in a holographic patina, textured to resemble marble. Chandeliers drip from the ceiling. They're composed of magnetized beads, each of which suspends a light sphere, polarities calibrated to keep them perfectly stationary no matter the turbulence outside. Should the  _Eclector_ open fire, these will be last to fall.

It's old-fashioned swank, pomp and circumstance rather than minimalism.  _Look how much money we spent on the candelabra_ rather than  _look, we have the money to throw away anything we don't need._ The guests are just as refined. Each creature of the curvaceous persuasion is draped in sumptuous gowns, while the skinny ones’ robes are crimped at the waist by shell-plated belts: the latest in Xandarian couture.

The itch starts in Yondu's fingers. There's so much to admire, so much to  _rob..._ His internal accountant tallies prices as fast as his brain logs them: a hundred units for those solar cells, fifty more for the screaming woman's bilgesnipe-ruff coat, doubled if they can scrub out the bloodstains...

“Tullk,” he says into his comm, boot propped on the captain's head. The man lays belly-down, broken fingers crackling when he tries to flex a fist. His whine cuts through Yondu's conversation, but peters to a warble when Yondu grinds down. “Got the bag-team ready?”

“Yessir.”

“Well, we's good to go.”

The Ravagers can get a lot done in a limited timeframe. After Yondu gives the order, it shouldn't take them more than an hour to strip this vessel to its life-support systems. Anything can be flogged on the blackmarket, from the passengers themselves, who'll ransom most handsomely, to the carpets, the furnishings, the sconces, and as many of the fancy engine components as they can stuff into their M-ship holds.

And the jewelry, of course. But Yondu's got his eye on that.

He stoops, grabbing a handful of chunky golden chains. The captain had tried to rescue them, after Kraglin liberated the necklace from the women with the bilgesnipe coat. She's currently screeching and clutching her stump-leg and being all sorts of irritating. Yondu, draping his finery over his tattooed pecs, casts her a glare.

“Quit bein' so dramatic, darlin'. We tourniqueted it for ya, an’ all.”

Kraglin, to thank for both the tourniqueting and the leg-obliteration that preceded it, rolls the lady to one side. Blood soaks the pelt, matting the fur in clumps.

“Dammit,” he says. “Gonna take a bath of salt an' cold water to get this out.”

“Right. One of you lovely lads – Dey?” Dey, round-faced and homely and (Yondu notes, not without gratification) stouter than he is, doesn't step forwards. A low whistle persuades him though, and he shuffles in Kraglin's direction, straining away from that red-glowing tip.

Yondu smiles, brazen where he can’t manage beautiful. “Show my mate the nearest kitchen, yeah? An' the bathroom after. No funny business though. Remember, fellas -”  He raises his voice, addressing the assembly as a whole, whose reflections distort around the curved beads of the chandeliers. “My boys are on the way. While we's tryin' to do this peaceful-like, no bloodshed required -"

The lady screams louder. Yondu winces, rootling his pinky about his earhole to alleviate the ring. “Present company excluded, o'course. But should the vitals of me an' any of mine fall silent...”

He slings an arm around Peter, dragging a sweltering line of boy against his side. Quill is tense, pistols still drawn. He eyes the ring of crewmen like he expects them to start a stampede.

At Yondu's touch he calms however, pressing against him with a sigh. What little muscle he has goes slack under his leathers. Yondu keeps one arm wrapped around him – only because Quill would crumple otherwise. Honestly. Here he is, slaving away, making enough mint to cover repairs for the upcoming astral year. And Quill can’t be asked to stand upright and look scary? Still, if there's one thing less threatening than a Terran juvenile using you as his leaning-post, it’s dropping him entirely.

Yondu can chew Quill out later. For now he has a speech to finish.

He makes eye contact with every star-sailor in turn, revealing the variety of metals that compose his fangy grin. “...Y'all blow like a supernova. Understand?”

Mumbles of assent and nods. Dey is one of the few to hold his gaze – but even he surrenders in the end, stomping off with a parting mutter of “I can't believe I told you about my wife.”

“And sent me a holopic,” Yondu reminds him. “She's a fine lass – was that on yer bondin’ day? I'm keepin' that one under my pillow.”

“Ugh!”

Yondu sniggers, waving Kraglin along. He doesn't actually need the spankbank material. Not when he's got a first mate who'll roll him onto his belly and plow him as long and hard as he likes. But hey – it makes Dey's face go a funny color. Quill's too, for that matter.

Yondu squeezes his bicep, willing him to keep it together. Nudging the lanky colt in the ribs, he turns his smirk from the crewmen to the passengers.

“Now,” he purrs, fondling the gold links of his latest necklace. Dirty nails click on gems. “What other shinies you got for me, ladies?”

 

* * *

 

By the time reinforcements arrive – not that they're needed; after disarming the captain, the crew have been remarkably well-behaved, and while Kraglin and Dey ain't back yet Yondu's willing to bet it takes serious elbow-work to scrub blood from a fleece that luscious – Yondu's jangling as much as his loot bag. Quill, for reasons untold, has foregone filling his own in favor of stealing the prettiest bits of glint he can find and ferrying them to his cap'n.

Idjit's gonna miss out on payday altogether, at this rate. His swag-sack looks woefully thin. But if he wants to shower Yondu with gifts, far be it from Yondu to stop him.

His neck burns under the weight of golden torques, pearl strings, articulated hardstone sautoirs and more. Yondu's glad he left his shirt. It shows 'em off real sweet: gold accentuated by the scarred blue backdrop. There's only one necklace Yondu refuses. It’s made of filligree fine as lacework, its clasp ornamented with diamond palmettes. But no amount of luster can disguise what it is: a dog collar.

Yondu shunts it into the brat's bag for him, as the boy has evidently forgotten how to fill it himself. Quill pouts at the rejection. But he takes Yondu’s unspoken criticism to heart, and next time he turns to the plaintive tug of fingers on his sleeve, Quill presents an earring.

It's a heart-cut ruby, star-forged judging by the clarity and the lack of silky inclusions. It's the size of Yondu’s thumbnail; gaudy and boastful, just the way he likes it. Quill ain't bothered fetching a matching pair - but that's good, because symmetry ain't Yondu's style. He pounces on the thing, snatching Quill's wrist and hunching over his captive hand. His fingers look clumsy in comparison, overlaid in a film of grease. He doesn't touch the stud for fear he'll tarnish it.

But god, he wants it.

“Butterfly's too fiddly,” he announces, stepping back and turning around. He pops one ring out of his lobe – dented, he won't miss it – and drops it to crush under his heel. The high back of his collar brushes Quill's chin. Yondu feels it crinkle as he gulps. “Do it for me, yeah Mister Skinnyfingers?”

Quill swallows again. His chest bumps Yondu's back, knuckles brushing his shoulderpad. “I – are you – sure?”

“Course I am, idjit.” Yondu blows a kiss to the woman who's modelling the other half of the set. Her bustle is a muslin rose, petals kept upright by a localized gravity-minimizer sewn under the skirt. She seems unsure whether she ought to be scowling, flushing, or pissing herself.

Around them the raid echoes on. Boots stomp along corridors, rubber treads squeaking skidmarks onto the checkerboard floor. Circuitry is pried from paneling, and the occasional less-than-zealous Ravager gets fried. Business as usual, as far as they're concerned. Compared to all that hustle and bustle, the space surrounding Yondu and Quill is almost serene.

Yondu yawns when Quill brushes his ear.  _Finally._

“Ya sure know how to keep a man waitin',” he drawls. “Hurry up an’ put it in me, already.”

Quill makes a strangled noise. It takes Yondu several moments to work out why. The stares from the two amassed Bridge crews don't help matters. Most, on hearing Yondu's order, have the decency to hide their snickers – but Tullk's known him long enough to get away with a chuckle.

Just.

Yondu shrinks in his coat, sneering at his toecaps. He's really starting to hate this Terran Puberty thing.

“C'mon already,” he growls at Quill. “Don'tchu make this awkward.”

More awkward than it already is. He should relieve Quill of his burden and have Kraglin slot the needle through the hole, fastening the pigeon-blood-pink stone in place. Plus, Quill standing there means the brat gets close-up confirmation of how regularly Yondu washes behind his ears (so not since last time he fell in a puddle deep enough for total immersion).

He wishes he could justify calling this off. But his men watched him issue the order, as well as the a-holes he's robbing. He can't back down.

“Quill,” he says, with warning finality. “Whas the hold up?”

Fingers fumble for his earlobe. They pinch it, tracing the mount of the second ring and the surrounding plump flesh, stroking until they locate the divot.

“Nothin' sir,” Quill murmurs. He's speaking so quietly, barely above a whisper, that this whole situation seems very  _intimate._ Or it would be,  if it weren't for their audience, and the fact that Quill's half his age and half as mature again, and Yondu does  _not_ see him like... Whatever this probably looks like to the passengers.

...Whatever it looks like to  _Quill._

Yondu bounces on the balls of his feet. Quill's breaths burst out of him a tad too sharp, a tad too short. Yondu can feel them – the scorching gust grows and recedes on his implant and across the back of his neck, lightning forks jittering out along nerves.

The piercing rests on the cusp of penetration. When it slides in, steered wonky by the trembles of Peter's wrist, Yondu suffers every cool nanometer. Quill’s sigh is as long and heartfelt as any of Kraglin’s post-coitus.

_Shit._

Yondu frantically orders his heart to quit rattling like a drumroll on the snares. Last thing the boy needs is  _encouragement._

“Back to work,” he announces, as soon as the butterfly nestles against the lobe, pushed by Quill's quivering fingertips. Then, in the most macho fashion imaginable, he heaves his swagbag over his shoulder and scarpers.

His necklaces beat his chest out of sync with his racing pulse. He doesn't look back. Not because the wistful pout of his pet Terran might win him over, but because he still has a reputation to maintain, and if he sees Peter stars-damned Quill making moon-eyes at his retreating back, he might start screaming and never stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wuh-woah. Somebody's starting to realize..... Your comments are what motivate me; please leave me some!**


	9. Sending Out An SOS

“Kraglin!” The ship is deserted. They’ve gathered everyone in the ballroom for their shake-down shindig, and only the cowards have evaded them: crouched in storage cupboards and crammed down garbage chutes, holding their breaths as the Ravager captain thunders by.

They won’t stay hidden long. Yondu ain't stupid – he's not letting potential moneypots go to waste. Oblo and Tullk, two of his most trusted, have been armed with an infrared scanner and ordered to hunt down their renegades. They'll fork over all spoils to the collective Ravager kitty (or at the least, they’ll only scrounge low-value items without telling him. Ravagers _technically_ ain’t supposed to steal from each other, and Yondu enforces that rule whenever he feels he has cause to - but in reality, he’s aware that his faction ain’t abided by the Code in a very long time).

Without the swarms of wealthy pensioners, the vacant cruiser is almost eerie. Curved corridors mean that you can’t see for more than a hundred yards without your vision being obstructed by a corner, the angle of which tapers so gently that your brain convinces you you're walking in a straight line.

Yondu feels like he’s trapped in an endless breathalyser test. His inner ears protest the ship's stillness, as if he’s stepped onto port after a month in deepspace. Apparently, this cruiser is high-end enough to afford an oscillation equalizer, which vibrates her hullplates at a frequency calibrated to cancel out the rumbling engines. For an old spacer like Yondu – well, not _old,_ just... _well-matured –_ it’s unnerving to be on a moving vessel when you can’t feel the triple-pulse of a fusion core reverberating up through your bootsoles.

But hey. He ain’t here to steal the ship. They’re hell to flog on the blackmarket, and the leisure corporations ain’t above hiring mercs to take revenge. He just wants his goddamn bilgesnipe coat, and he wants Kraglin to reassure him that this whole thing with Quill is in his head, and he wants to march back out there and inform everyone of this, Quill included, at top volume.

Is that really so much to ask?

Apparently so.

Dey bursts from the supply closet, hidden behind a camoflaging panel in the wall. He holds an energy blade close enough to tickle the beard hairs that snake down Kraglin's throat.

“Halt!”

“Hi boss,” Kraglin croaks, waggling his fingers. The bilgesnipe ruff puddles around his ankles, bloodier than ever. This time it ain't all red. Yondu sees the corresponding slice along Kraglin's forearm, dripping inky blue. He groans.

“We ain't never gettin' that out.”

Kraglin at least has the decency to look remorseful. “Sorry, sir.”

“Y'know how much I coulda got for that coat?”

“Yessir. I'm the one who told ya the pricings, sir.”

“Fifty units.”

“One hundred, actually. Y'know, if it was clean an' all.”

“And now? Nothin'.”

“More like twenty actually, sir -”

Yondu points at him. “Yer bein' held hostage; at least have the decency to _act_ like yer scared. Poor Dey here's doin' his best.”

Kraglin sighs. He keeps his head tilted so the bob of his throat doesn't agitate the knife. “Sorry, sir. Are you okay?”

Idjit. He should know better than to show concern in front of a hostile. Although Dey, who's glancing between them with growing consternation, has too soft a face to warrant the term.

Thing is, Yondu doesn't _want_ to kill him. The whole murderous mayhem-loving bastard routine is fun, but at the end of the day, wasting lives for no reason is the mark of men worse than he is. Plus, dude's got a mighty fine wife. Be a shame to leave a woman like that a widow.

But Dey's between him and the bilgesnipe coat. And, marginally more importantly, his knife is between Yondu and Kraglin.

Yondu whistles. Just once. Dey considers slicing. He stops himself before he can bare Kraglin's carotid to the air.

“Careful!” he snaps. The arrow reflects in the whites of his eyes. It hovers above him, jittering at the end of its glowing ribbon, a viper poised to strike. “Next time I cut!”

Yondu nods, jovial as ever. “An' ya know what happens to ya then.”

The blancmange texture of Dey's cheeks says yes, he does. Yondu claps his hands.

“To business then. Kraglin, I gotta talk to you. About Quill.”

“What, _now?_ ” Kraglin frowns. “Can it wait?”

“I'm yer cap'n. I don't gotta wait for nobody. Look. I... I think Quill likes me.”

Dey frowns too. “I hardly think this is relevant -”

“You, shaddup. I'm talking to Kraglin. Kraglin, I think Quill _like-likes_ me...”

There’s a shine in Kraglin's eyes. Not a glimmer so much as a twitch; a tick that makes his left underlid jiggle like a needle on a seismograph.

Jealousy, perhaps? Yondu shakes it off, barrels on.

“Look. See this?” He gestures to his new earring. Quill’s hand had been shaking, and Yondu's lobe is hot and swollen as a result. Usually when he applies those adjectives to a bodypart, he gets a lot more fun out of it. But right now that bodypart is withering at the mere _thought._

He told the kid he'd _spank him._ Yondu ain't never getting it up again.

“The earring, sir?” Kraglin prompts. Yondu, tongue a dried slug in his mouth, nods.

“Quill gave it to me. An' I think he, uh. He might've been...”

“Quill's the boy, right?” Dey chimes in, waggling his knife between Yondu and Kraglin as he tries to follow their dialogue. “He's – what, fourteen?”

“ _Flirtin',_ ” Yondu finishes, with a shudder that makes the gold around his throat jangle and chime. “And _sixteen._ Not that thas much better.”

Dey snorts, shifting the blade to tickle the clustered arteries under Kraglin's ear. “I'm glad that you're not completely without morals. But why would you initiate a sixteen year old to the Ravagers in the first place? It's hardly a fitting place for a minor.”

“Oh, he's been with us since he was eight,” says Kraglin breezily. 

“ _Eight?_ You stole a child?”

Yondu shrugs. “His grampapa shouldn’t've made it so easy! S’practically _askin’_ for someone to snatch him, lettin' him run out the hospital on his lonesome!”

"You shameless bastard! Just because children are  _easy_ to steal, it doesn't mean you  _should!_ "

However, there are more important issues up for debate than the morality of extra-legal child acquisition. Firstly, why Kraglin's eyelid is making that jerk, one Yondu now recognizes as suppressing laughter.

“Issa long story. And Krags – it ain't fuckin' funny. A-hole.”

“Well sir, kinda is. Us lot on the Bridge've had a betting pool goin' on whether you was just playin' dumb, or if you actually hadn't worked it out.” Kraglin makes to rub his beard in a half-hearted attempt at hiding his smirk. A searing prod from the knife prevents him. “Yowch! Okay, okay. Hands by the sides. Sheesh. Look boss, it were kinda obvious. How did ya not notice?”

Wilful blindness? Yondu’s obstinate enough to convince himself that the stars are within grabbing distance and they won’t burn his hands, if he puts his mind to it. But try as he might, there’s no escaping the knowledge that Quill's interactions with him over the past couple of weeks (the blushes, the stammers, the tentative attempts to initiate contact) ain’t the result of hormones the poor kid has no idea how to channel.

Quill knows, alright. And apparently, he wants to channel those hormones towards Yondu's dirty blue person.

Eugh. If two portions of blood quarter the coat's pricetag, vomit will make it wholly unsaleable.

“Cap'n,” Kraglin continues, shaking his head - and damn near slicing himself open on the energy-knife in the process. “I do gotta say though, it ain't the kid's fault, not entirely. You did kinda lead him on.”

“What?” Yondu gawks, then sputters, then smacks his ear like he’s dispelling a ring. “ _Lead him on?_ What nonsense you spouting, boy?”

“You kept patting his head an’ lettin' him sleep in yer room -”

“Cause he woulda deserted otherwise!”

“And spendin' yer lunchbreaks with him instead of me -”

“Yer just jealous.”

“And callin' him cute!”

“So sue me! Kid _is_ cute, okay? Just... not like that. He's like a puppy.” Yondu parks his hands on his hips. The slice in Kraglin’s arm drools slowly; man’s a fast clotter. If they don’t hurry this up, the blood on the coat will set solid and they’ll have to chip it out the pelt with a chisel. “Would ya fuck a puppy, Kraggles?”

“I think,” says Dey, tapping the hilt of his knife politely off Kraglin's clavicle for their attention, “we've gotten off-topic.”

“An' I think I told ya to keep yer mouth shut! Let the big boys handle this one, mm-kay?”

Dey sighs.

“Look," continues Yondu. "Fact of the matter is, how'm I supposed to tell the brat that I ain't... That I don't...”

“You could always let him walk in on us?” Kraglin suggests. Dey pulls a face.

“That would be inappropriate in so many ways...”

“Thanks for your input, curly-wurly! Look, he's all horny and shit. Practically humped my leg last time we was in my bed -”

“Well maybe if you never let no one in yer bed but me to _start with,_ sir -”

“For the last time, bot-hookers don't count! They don't gotta brain!”

“Do ya put yer dick in it, sir? Does it put its dick in you? It counts!”

“Ain't no different to sittin' on a vibe! Ya want me to stop that too, when you ain't there?”

“You _sit on vibes_ and don't let me watch?”

“Well, does _yours_ vibrate?”

“Not unless ya get me modded!”

Yondu pauses. Blinks at Kraglin’s crotch zipper. “Why," he asks. "You up for that?”

Kraglin blanches. “Hell no!”

Dey shudders again. His blade dips from Kraglin's neck – and this time, Kraglin and Yondu are ready.

Kraglin ducks. He slithers from Dey's grip, wedging an elbow between Dey's wrist and his chest to push the energy-knife away. Then, with a wriggle and a twist that would make a stoat proud, he ducks under the guy's meaty arm, grabs his wrist, and dodges nimbly behind him. Dey’s bicep flattens his windpipe: a shoulder-straining self-choke.

Yondu, who ain't had to lift a finger – much less purse his lips – smirks.

“Good boy,” he says, to make both of 'em squirm. Kraglin shoots him a sneer and flipped bird (because there ain't no cap'n and mate in the bedroom; too damn confusing for a start, and _orders_ and _requests_ get muddled). He gets a wink in return.

“Now, Mr Dey. Here's whas gonna happen.” Yondu pads forwards, arrow hovering behind him and making the occasional feint, just for added menace, like it has a mind of its own. Dey's eyes, to his credit, remain fixed on Yondu. But they flick back and forth every time the slim shaft twitches, revolving midair with the tip pointed unerringly at his forehead. “Me an' my boys are gonna take what we want, like we always do. Then, once yer pretty lass here - “ he pats the wall besides Dey's head, Kraglin hauling the man back with a grunt when he snaps his teeth. “- Is stripped like yer wife would be if she ever played a game of poker on my ship, we's gonna leave y'all high and dry. It's the Ravager way. And there ain't nothin' you can do to stop us.”

Dey tries to claw his nearest eye out. Kraglin yanks on his wrist until his shoulder makes a nasty popping sound, wet as a burst bubble. Yondu shakes his head.

“Woah, woah. I think we owe him that one. Now...” He unhooks the energy blade from Dey's white-knuckled fist, tutting his tongue against his jagged incisors when he clings. “Ah-ah-ah... There we go, boyo. Nice an' slow. Don'tchu worry, I ain't gonna kill ya – got that pretty lil' wife of yers to think of. So you's gonna get you in the closet – quit gigglin', Kraggles; ain't professional. And you's gonna stay there until ya hear us decouple.”

Dey bares his teeth. They're all uniform. Kinda shiny too, artificially whitened and smooth, and if Yondu keeps looking at them he'll start wondering about how much they might sell for. He pats his clean-shaven cheek.

“Better luck in the Corps, darling,” he purrs. He tips Kraglin the nod that has him shuffling Dey along, stepping over the coat and guided by the agony in his dislocated shoulder joint, until he can be shoved into the cupboard and forgotten about.

Meanwhile, Yondu twists the knife, swirling it through a set of simple katas. A rather clumsy set. It's been a while since he was drilled, under the strict eyes and stricter fists of a senior slave. He's glad there ain't no crew around but Kraglin, who watches him with amusement before holding his hand out for the glittering blade and showing him how it's done.

Watching him move is mesmerizing. Kraglin performs a fluid, winding dance of sinew and red leather, offset by the knife, which gleams bright enough to carve a criss-crossed scrimshaw onto Yondu's retina. He wheels around himself, slashing invisible throats and finishing with a toss that has the blade sinking hilt-deep in the cupboard’s marbled door, cleaving metal like hot wax.

It quivers there, until the plasma field has carved a deep enough gouge that it can slither out and clatter on the floor. It would eat through that too, had Kraglin not deactivated the thing. He matches Yondu's grin. And, when Yondu steps towards him he shuffles forwards as well.

They stand chest to chest, buckles and zippers clinking until they synchronize their breaths. Yondu tucks a finger through Kraglin's belt-loop, tugging enough to pull the leather away from Kraglin's skin, and treats him to a crooked smirk.

“Wanna make out?” Kraglin blurts, then turns impossibly more fluorescent. Yondu shrugs.

“Might as well.”

The knife has bored a decent-sized slice through the cupboard door. Should Dey care to, he could squash his cheek against it and spy. But hey, Yondu thinks as he barges Kraglin back against the nearest wall and thumbs the new slice on his forearm to make him whimper and hiss, thigh splitting the seam of his skinny red legs. It's not every day you successfully rob a cruise ship. And anyway - like Dey said, Yondu's one hell of a shameless bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **One more chapter to go, guys! It'll be the Big Confrontation where Yondu and Quill set things straight. Awkward emotional conversations abound!**


	10. All's Well That Ends Well

That generous streak doesn't extend to letting Kraglin get all touchy-feely when they’re around crew. Which is what he seems determined to do, as he and Yondu lug the pelt back to the ship, shaking morose heads at the bloodstains. Kraglin keeps glowering at Yondu's new ear stud, and by the third ass-squeeze, his excuse of 'tripped' is wearing thin.

Yondu piles the entire coat on him, feathery adornments and all. He flicks Kraglin's diced-up arm, making the skinny toothpick stagger like he's been shot.

“Quill!” he roars. “Leave the loading to these sods. You done good today." Mediocre, if he’s honest. The majority of Quill's contributions dangle around Yondu's neck, rather than jangling in the swagbags the crew pass from the ballroom along a conveyor belt of leatherclad arms. But it makes Kraglin's nose go crinkly with jealousy, and that's what matters. Yondu continues, loud to drown out his wheezing mate: “I'm thinkin' we deserve a bit of a party! Me an' the boy're headed to Contraxia – rest of y'all can catch us up!”

It's for the sole purpose of pissing off Kraglin. This noble plot would've gone off without hitches, spanners in the works, or sparks in the fusion core, if only Quill hadn't ordered double.

“Kid,” says Yondu slowly, eyeing the flagon that's been plonked on the bartop before him, a marbled purple cocktail sloshing within. “The fuck d'you think yer doing?”

They've occupied this corner of the bar, having cleared the locals with a flash of Yondu's arrow and a glint of his metal-coated teeth. There's a silent ring around them, like the space that surrounds a Kree warship at a refuelling station. No one wants to broach that gap, as if the blood on their hands is contagious.

The owner has long-since deserted, squawking 'drinks're on the house!' when Yondu started haggling with the robo-bartender over the costs of different liquors. If he's a wise man, he'll be writing off this stock. Heavens knows there ain't gonna be much left of it, after the Ravagers are through.

But for now, the bulk of Yondu's crew are finding out how tightly hostages and jewels can be crammed into M-ship holds before one or the other bursts. And Quill, more fool him, has decided to make the most of their solitude.

“I,” he says, “am buying you a drink.” He even slides a chit into the robo-bartender’s intake slot, with something that approaches defiance.

Aw hell. Yondu gazes at the swirling, fruit-scented hues as if they contain his future. Somewhere, somehow, he knows Kraglin is laughing. “And why'd you do that, Petey?”

“Because...” Quill gnaws the inside of his cheek. For a moment, uncertainty blossoms. Then he summons his resolve, drawing himself up to his full, not inconsiderable height, eyes bright with the determination that'd convinced Yondu the brat was a solid investment in the first place (despite all advice, warnings, and outright threats to the contrary). He nudges the drink a half-inch closer.

Yondu retreats by an equal amount. He's already dreading Quill's answer. But silencing him once he gets talking is as futile as shouting _back, I command you_ at a black hole after you've passed the event horizon.

“Because,” Quill continues, “you told me you usually make guys buy you a drink. Before you let them fuck you.”

Oh, by Thanos.

Yondu takes the drink – because hey, free booze. But he glowers at Quill as he wipes the foam from his upper lip, swallowing before speaking. “We ain't fuckin', kid.”

Quill seems to have been expecting this. “I'm mature for my age! You've said it a hundred times -”

“I ain't!”

A handheld recording device is produced. Yondu's own voice proclaims “Ain't gonna be a brat much longer, y'know,” on repeat.

Memory flares – the two of them lounging on the _Warbird's_ cockpit glass, sharing food as easily as conversation. Yondu'd thought the brat wanted to spend more time with him out of respect. Well, more fool him.

At least Peter's prepared. Yondu taught him that: to know what he wants, and to go out and get it too. He's just not so keen on that something being _him._

“First, thas creepy,” he says, setting down the drink with a clash. “Second, that ain't what that means. Yer sixteen – still ain't legal!”

Quill _pouts._ “S'only two more years! Ain't that long, in the wider scheme of things!”

“Yer goddamn _lifetime_ ain't that long in the wider scheme of things! And brat, look. Even when you's old enough to fuck whoever you fuckin' well please, you still ain't invited to my bed.”

“But – but I ain't had no one else.” His bottom jaw juts out in a stubborn display Yondu's accustomed to seeing on toddlers (and occasionally, his own mug in the mirror). “I want you to be my first. Someone I – I _trust..._ ”

Oh hell no. He did _not._

Yondu's fist clenches, hard as the tabletop it rests on. “You don't try that manipulation shit here, kid,” he says softly. “Understand? Not for things like this. Not on me, not on anyone. You wanna tell a lass yer noble and all that shit, thas on her if she believes ya. But ya don't fuckin' _exploit_ what people feel for ya -”

Peter's features, drooping throughout Yondu's speech, spring into an elastic grin. “You feel something for me!”

Of _course_ he'd pounce on that, like a cub learning to hunt. Because that's what Quill is. He's a fuckin' _pup_ , and Yondu would renounce his title and take up gardening before he'd lure him to his nest.

“Yeah,” he growls. The word saws over his vocal cords, as reluctant to sound as he is to say it. “Yeah, I don't hate ya, if thas what yer askin'. But you's my crew.”

“You fuck Kraglin!” Yondu left himself wide open for that one. The diatribe continues, Quill's words a barbed flurry: “And he's younger than you are too! You gotta screw me, cap'n! It's... It's hypocritcial otherwise!”

Yondu sneers into his drink. “This ain't about me an' Kraglin, kid. It's about me an' you. Don't change topic.”

Derailment is another of those classic buccaneering techniques Yondu taught him. No better way than to slip the law than to befuddle the Corpsmen mid-interrogation. Why are all his lessons choosing this moment to bite him in the ass? It's almost as if he created the little monster perched besides him, drink untouched, bunching fists and chewing lip as he puzzles out what he can barter, or blackmail with, to get Yondu into his bed.

“Why'd you keep me around then?” he whispers. Yondu can't tell if this is a genuine question or another ploy. He doesn't like how good Quill's gotten at lying (then again, as his role model, he can't exactly complain). “What use am I to you? I ain't the best thief, or the best pilot, or the best shooter, an' I don't like killing folks, and you always say I eat more than I earn -”

“Yer the best you,” says Yondu solemnly. “Thas all you gotta be, to me.”

He hates heart-to-hearts.  _H_ _ates_ 'em. Hates the fizzles in his abdomen as his body tries to process emotions and translates them into indigestion due to lack-of-practice. Hates the fondness, and the stars-blasted _empathy,_ those kernels that ignite in his chest as Quill slumps lower on his stool.

“I don't understand.”

Yondu should scoff. Feign his usual bombastic act, like he's biggest and baddest around. But while he opens his mouth, the insult doesn't emerge. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I don't much either.”

Whatever drink the kid fetched, it ain't something Yondu would choose. The cocktail looks like it was whipped up from whatever open bottles the robo bartender had to hand. Yondu ought to harbor trepidations – intergalactic tappery is an art, and it's all-too-easy to mix a liqueur that reacts like acid when it comes into contact with the esophagal tissue of lesser-known species like himself. But as a general rule of thumb, if Quill can drink it without choking, so can he. He takes another mouthful. It's sharper than fermenting fruit, a bracing sting on the tongue.

Only problem is, it ain't of inhibition-lowering potency. Or at least, not to the point where he can excuse the confessional bubbling from his throat like a gassy burp, one he can't swallow no matter how hard he tries.

“Look kid, here's what I know. I know that I don't want'chu dead. I know that I don't like it when yer... when yer hurtin'.”

He pauses to rewet his whistle. When he lowers the mug, Quill is frowning.

“That's all?”

“Shaddup; I ain't done yet. End of the day, I... I _care..._ ” He even manages to say it without shuddering.”About ya.”

“Like you care about Kraglin?” asks Quill, with admirable hope. Seems that if he can't be first, he's willing to draw second. Yondu thwaps the back of his head.

“Didn't I tell ya to shaddup? Kid, I didn't let ya sleep in my bed because I wanna sit on yer dick. No -  _no._  Aw hell.Don't picture that. Fuck. I put'chu in my bed because I wanted to stop ya runnin' away. Because if I lost ya, I'd feel like...” Yondu gropes for words. “Like I'd... Like I'd lost...”

No other way around. He's gotta say it. _Pet_ has weird sexual connotations that Quill ain't too naïve to miss, and _crewman_ is too distant, too aloof, like he's one of them decorated Nova Denaarians who don't say the names of their soldiers until they're reading them off a funerary list.

“Like I'd lost a son,” he finishes. And while his tongue shapes that word clumsily, he can't deny how good it tastes.

Quill looks as shocked as Yondu is uncomfortable. It won't be long before the others arrive, having turned their M-ship nosecones in the direction of the nearest Pleasure-Planet. Yondu ain't gonna give those nosy fucks the pleasure of eavesdropping. He's gotta finish this swift-like.

“More a mascot really,” he amends. He takes another swig, more confidently this time. “Don't get me wrong – I'm still considerin' whether you might be better off in the stewpot. But at the end of the day, boy, only one person's gonna kill ya. An' thas me.”

Quill's startled expression cracks. The grin is small, and very far from happy – but it's teasing and cheeky and everything Yondu likes about him. “That's practically a sonnet, from you.”

Yondu flaps his hand in his general direction. Quill has to lean in to enable the ruffle, which soon converts into a noogie. Yondu's knuckles rub concentric circles onto Quill's scalp that threaten to abrade his hair and leave him with a tonsure. “Shuddit. Damn pest...”

“You love me really!”

Yondu freezes. Quill, realizing what he's just said, freezes too. Then tentatively, peeping at his cap'n from under his wrist - “And I love you. Is that wrong?”

“Definitely,” Yondu grits. “At least, ya don't admit it. Not in flarkin' public -”

“In private then?” asks Quill, indomitable as ever. He shrugs out from under Yondu's palm – and then, before Yondu can scoff and return to his drink, captures his hand between his own. His fingers are spindly and pale, like the legs of ghost-crabs from deep oceanic moons. Kid needs to get more sunlight. So Yondu thinks, as the brat swivels his stool to face him, big blue eyes blinking from a pimple-pocked face.

“I love you, cap'n,” he breathes. “An' I wanna spend the rest of my life with you, an' fight besides you, an' do... do _things_ to you, the things Kraglin does, an'... Are you laughing?”

He is, but only a little.

“Stop laughing! Why're you laughing? Here's me, pouring out my soul...”

“Ya sound like one of them idjits on yer Walkthing,” Yondu chortles, slurping moonshine and slapping his thigh and doing his best not to choke. “ _Do you like penis and klyntar -”_

“Pina Coladas! Jeez, Yondu...”

“There.” Mirth folds from his face, lines creasing across his forehead and around his scowl. Yondu points, nail chipped and dirty as his teeth. “' _Jeez, Yondu.'_ Ya sound like a child.”

Quill shuffles higher on his seat. “I'm a Ravager! You always told me I had to grow up fast -”

“An' ya did,” Yondu agrees. Next time he tips his drink, he realizes he's drained the glass – all that's left is froth. It drips into his mouth, sour and foamy as beer hops. Once he's shaken the last drops onto his tongue – ignoring Quill, who's making that hunch that indicates he's warding off a boner – Yondu belches in lieu of sighing and reaches for Quill's own pint.

“But kid,” he says as he samples the first searing mouthful. “No matter how old ya get, or how big ya grow, or how many hairs ya sprout on yer chin... You'll always be the lil' Peter Quill who hid under my coat on the Bridge.”

Quill quits trying to steal his drink back in favor of cringing. “ _Cap'n..._ ”

“Yep,” Yondu says. He brandishes the glass like it's a conductor's baton, spirits slopping over his sleeve. Overhead, the bar-lights frolic. A girl shaped out of neon strips gyrates between three positions, making shadows wind serpentine over skin. “Real cute brat you were. All small an' chubby-cheeked. Hell, I taught ya how to use a gun. Remember that?”

“I remember, cap'n. I remember...” The gulp darts the length of Quill's throat, vanishing under the collar of his jacket. “Your hands. You uh. You held the pistol so it wouldn't buck.”

“Yeah. Lil' mite like you – thought the kickback'd have ya clockin' yerself in the face, ruinin' that handsome mug.” Yondu doesn't quite dare pinch Quill's cheek. He wonders whether he ever will again. One day, he decides. When Quill's settled with a lady – or a gent; ain't like Yondu can judge. Maybe even a brat of his own.

“Taught ya to fly too,” he says, resting both elbows on the counter and leaning over them, letting his head dangle as he shoots Quill a grin. Quill, however tentatively, emulates.

“I crashed.”

“You did. Wanna know a secret?”

Quill perks. “Yeah!”

“I did too, first time. Had a guy to sort me out though, same as I sorted you.”

“Did he yell at you? My ears were still ringing the next day.”

In truth, Stakar had been mortified that he'd thought shouting 'you're piloting!' at a newly freed slave, who had no idea how to tell the thruster button from the ejector seat, was a good idea. He'd apologized a lot, after brushing Yondu off and checking him for broken bones, and next time they were between missions, he took him to a depopulated klik between asteroid belts and guided him through each of the controls with a patience Yondu never mastered.

And for a moment, in that confusing liminal phase when _master_ and _friend_ and _cap'n_ blurred, Yondu thought that maybe, the pair of them would...

Because why else would Stakar invest so much in him? Why else would he care?

Maybe he understands Quill better than he lets on.

One thing's for sure, and that's that Stakar made a better father stand-in than Yondu. Considering what happened to the poor sod's kids, it ain't surprising. But of course, Yondu had fucked up that relationship, as he tends to fuck up every connection he cultivates.

Not this one though. For Quill, he'll do better.

“Yeah,” Yondu lies. He waves for the bartender's attention. The droid doesn't have recording components, only a three-sixty degree optical visor which projects a holographic menu. No chance of overhearing loose-lipped secrets – it won't be long before sentient barkeeps are on the dole. But hey. That means more meat for the Ravager grinder, ergo Yondu ain't complaining. He points out what he wants – neat moonshine, none of the flouncy frippery Quill prefers. A man's drink, a Ravager's drink. When it arrives, he nudges it over.

“Here. For you.”

Quill side-eyes him. “So do you wanna fuck or don't you? I'm getting mixed messages here.”

Hoo boy. Of course the idjit needs it spelled out. Yondu's stool creaks noisily as he rearranges, hooking his heels on the rung and prodding Quill's chest. “I ain't buyin' you booze cause I want into yer pants, squirt. I'm buyin' it because there's a cute lass down the other end of the bar who ain't been scared off by our flames. I'm thinkin' ya oughta practice yer come ons on her, rather than an old man like me.”

“You're not _that_ old,” says Quill. Two can play at the recording game – Yondu flicks off the active button he'd surreptitiously touched, just in time to catch his words.

“There. I'll remind ya of that next time you start insinuatin' otherwise. Now boy – I'll wing ya. I'll chat up any gal you point out, boy too, and point 'em in the direction of my lanky Terran friend. Hell, choose 'em big an' blue if that's yer type.”

“You ain't that big either.”

Yondu doesn't want to keep that for posterity. He tucks the recorder in his pocket, huffing stale air over his collarbones, which are cool from their overlay of gold. “'Scuse me. You was watchin' me shower. I think we both know that ain't true.”

“Was kinda hoping you were a grower, actually.”

Enough is enough. Yondu growls, picks up the drink, and rams it against Peter's sternum.

“You take this,” he snarls over the 'oof', teeth glinting to match his new bling. “Ya pick anyone in this bar to screw. Anyone 'cept me. And, um, maybe that A'askavarian over there. Just, uh, trust me on that one. But anyway - you screw 'em hard, you screw 'em good. And whatever ya do, at the last moment you _don't_  think of me, or say my name. An' you do that until ya don't want me no more.”

It'd worked after his banishment, with Stakar. It'll work here too.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Kraglin slumps besides him, huffing and smelling faintly of bilgesnipe, a bandage round his perforated forearm and a tankard in his hand, Yondu's pawned Quill off on a busty Kree chick. He hadn't been happy about it, because that race ain't his favorite, but hell, he said _anyone_. And to be fair, while the Kree are a tetchy lot, they don't got that nasty A'askavarian habit of biting off heads mid-coitus.

“Where's yer toyboy then?” is the first thing Kraglin asks. It's curt by his standards. Not even a 'sir' tacked to the end. Yondu supposes this means they're in private-cabin mode. It's poor timing. The bar is overflowing with red leather; Ravager after Ravager staggers through the door, yawning, scratching beards and bollocks, some halfway towards inebriation and others long past it.

“Thas mighty disrespectful of ya, Obfonteri. Not even a greetin' fer yer cap'n? 'M thinkin' I oughta drag you off for discipline.”

“So long as ya don't invite the brat,” drawls Kraglin. He seems unafraid, scooching Quill's vacated chair close enough that his leg nudges Yondu's. Then, daringly, he drops a hand on Yondu's thigh.

Yondu shoots him a warning look. _Public,_ it says. The head tilt and the sneer he gets in response says _A_ _re you really gonna stop me._

Yondu could. It would take a word, or a whistle. But Kraglin's seeing something that ain't there – or at the very least, something which is there on one side and absent on the other, and which Yondu only let go on so long because firstly, he's an idiot, secondly, he didn't want to consider the possibility, and thirdly, because it's fun making Kraglin look like he's suffering through a particularly stodgy bout of constipation.

He twists, locating Quill by the shock of bright orange earbuds he's lowering onto Kree-girl's head. As if his gaze is the dual-beam of an M-ship headlamp, Quill turns – but by then Yondu's facing away. He's holding Kraglin's hand under the table, so tight his nails etch crescents in his skin.

Kraglin winces. “Sir, what -”

“Shuddit. I can't let insubordination like this fly, Obfonteri.”

“Uh.” Kraglin waggles his captive fingers. “Yer the one holdin' my hand, boss.”

“I said,” says Yondu louder, talking over him. The pandemonium – as the robot bartender is punched until it resembles a bot-hooker after Taserface has finished with it, and leathers are shed to form a smelly carpet upon which pot-bellied, beer-bellied, and hairy-bellied men gambol in dodgem-like disarray – is noisy enough to keep this conversation private. “You needs a lesson in discipline, Obfonteri.” Nails crimp the tendon that joins Kraglin's thumb to his faraway elbow joint. Yondu strokes there, up and down, digging into the knife-cut through the bandage. “I'm thinkin' you handcuffed to the bed, blindfolded an chokin’ on my-”

“Sir,” Kraglin interjects. Yondu would be offended that he ain't yet moaning, if a glance under the table didn't assure him of Kraglin's interest. Somebody didn't wear a cup. And yeah, he has rules about _public,_ and yeah, the Ravagers lean perilously close on all sides, and _yeah,_ Quill keeps sneaking looks at him that Kree girl ain't gonna be oblivious to for much longer. But Yondu's fingers still itch to squeeze the bulge at Kraglin's groin...

This time, it's Kraglin who grabs his wrist. “So long as ya take yer turn in the cuffs.”

“Was plannin’ on it.”

“And let me fuck you slow. Yer always in such a rush; feels like ya want my dick out yer asshole as soon as it's in.”

Yondu grimaces, but nods.

“I'm gonna be real sweet to ya too. Kiss ya and tell ya I love ya, an’ all that mushy shit you hate. An’ yer not gonna bitch about it.”

“Don’t push it.”

But when Kraglin shrugs and makes to relocate, Yondu tugs him back again.

“Awright, awright! Hell, but you strike a hard bargain. Okay, Mister Obfonteri. You got yerself a deal.”

They shake on it and everything. Yondu feels Quill watching as he slams his cup on the bartop and announces that he's turning in early – mission specs to discuss with his mate, and other such business. Ravager captains rarely have the luxury of enjoying a victory bash. Really, his crew oughta be grateful he ain't promoted them, and next time some mouthy upstart witters about _mutiny,_ could they please remember this incident and how lucky they all are that they get to party while he and his second take care of the hard work?

Speech complete, Yondu slings an arm around his mate's shoulders, and swivels them for the exit. He doesn't look back. Quill seems to get the message.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'll give it a thorough edit in the morning.... On my way to my holiday! I can't wait, haha. It's like my reward for getting this fic uploaded! A MASSIVE thanks to everyone who's commented. You guys pump my motivation so gosh darn much, and I hope you know what you mean to me. :hugs:**

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave comments! <3**


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